


Yours for an hour

by Willia



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blood, Brothel AU, Grief, Hand Jobs, King Alistair, M/M, Oral Sex, Post-Blight, Prostitution, Slight D/s Dynamics, Violence, injuries, prostitute Zevran
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-09-02 23:01:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 21,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16796410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Willia/pseuds/Willia
Summary: The AU where Zevran didn't become a Crow but instead ended up working at the local brothel, and he one day gets asked to meet aspecial client...





	1. Yours for an hour

**Author's Note:**

> Check out the [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/1172227816/playlist/2W5QZRclZGgsZTNWDCNrV7?si=7b2T8j1-RV2MdP4ziq6p6w) for this fic!

Tonight is a slow night. There are only a few regulars sitting in the main room of the brothel, each accompanied by their favourite hosts. Arms are wrapped around waists, fingers are weaving through hair and there’s whispered chatter, just the faint tension of promised pleasures that always floats in the lower floor of the establishment.

Without anyone to attend to, Zevran is perched on a stool at the edge of the bar so he’ll see both the entrance and the lovely barmaid he’s been exchanging pleasantries with. Further in the room, he sees Taliesen descend the stairs with a satisfied-looking human at his arm. They exchange a smile. Zevran’s friend lets his client go with a wave and a wink.

Zevran is about to join him for a chat, when a hand grabs his shoulder. He spins around. “ _Señora_?”

The woman indicates the door to the backroom by a nod. Zevran follows her. The room is dark, only lit by a single candle on top of a pile of crates. It makes the _Señora’s_ green eyes stand starkly against her dark skin.

“You have a special client,” she says once the door closes behind them. “Here’s the address of the inn he’s staying at.” She hands him a piece of parchment.

 _Well that’s unusual_. “Special client?” he enquires, twisting the parchment in his hands without reading it.

She nods. “Rich bloke. He sent a messenger with payment and instructions.”

“A messenger, hmm?” Zevran leans forward and whispers like a secret, smile on his lips, “What did he ask for?” The _Señora_ nods at the parchment, so he unfolds it. On it are scribbled an address, and a request. “Human or elf man, not too submissive,” he reads. His grin widens. “I believe I can do that. May I enquire about the pay?”

“Handsome,” is the only response he gets.

“Very well! Let us meet this mysterious man of wealth.” He winks at the _Señora_ , smooths his shirt for good measure, and with that he slips out the brothel through the back door.

* * *

The inn is quite far from the brothel, so far in fact that Zevran has to walk around the Royal Palace’s perimeter to get to it. The streets are dark, and he’s thankful for the blade in his boot. Not that he’s very good with knives, or any kind of fighting, really… But the hilt pressing into his calf with each step is reassuring.

The inn itself is nestled at the end of a dark alleyway. It looks shabby. Definitely not the kind of place one would think a man of means would stay in… Although, as it occurs to him, that’s most likely why someone wishing to remain discrete would have picked it.

The door is heavy. It gives under Zevran’s shoulder with a low creak that echoes in the empty street.

The main room is small, and the patrons rare. One of them catches Zevran’s gaze as he walks in and gets up from his table in a hurry to meet him. He’s barely out of his teenage years, features still too awkward to be those of a man. _The messenger, then_.

“He awaits in his room,” he murmurs when he gets within earshot.

The boy leads him to a door at the end of a dark hallway, before disappearing so fast Zevran doesn’t have time to thank him. He smooths his hair and clothes one last time, puts his best suave smile on, and knocks firmly on the door.

“It’s open,” says a voice from inside the room. _Interesting accent. Fereldan?_

Zevran didn’t quite know what he’d expected. Probably some old merchant intending to relax after a day at the market. Or maybe one of his regulars looking for a special evening with their favourite.

But the human inside is neither old, nor a familiar face. He looks to be in his early twenties, close to Zevran’s own age. His blond-red hair is cropped short, just like the hair on his face. He’s sitting behind a large desk covered in papers that he begins gathering when his guest steps into the room. Zevran just has the time to notice the rich fabric of his clothes before he remembers his manners and bows low.

“I am Zevran,” he says, working his voice in the deliberate and low-pitched way that he knows has the most success. “You sent for company?”

“I did.”

The man considers him appreciatively for a second, before going back to the gathering of his papers. Zevran takes the opportunity to walk around gingerly, scanning the room. It’s not as shabby as the rest of the inn suggested. The bed is simple, but made with clean-looking sheets, and there’s even an empty tub peeking from behind a room divider. Zevran wonders briefly whether this place is a popular place for rich folk to meet incognito. That would certainly explain the decrepit look of the outside of the establishment.

“Zevran, you said?”

He turns back towards his host with a shining smile. “Indeed,” he confirms.

The desk is now empty, two neat piles of papers resting at its feet. The man is still sitting in the chair, both arms propped on the armrests and a goblet – of wine, presumably – loosely held in one hand. “You can call me Aedan.” He watches Zevran walk back around the desk. “It’s not my real name,” he adds.

Zevran chuckles. “I had figured as much.”

They stare at each other for a second. _He really is a handsome man_ , Zevran thinks, and he lets the twinkle of that thought reach his eyes. The man tilts his head in entertained curiosity. The smile on his lips is faint, but relaxed.

Zevran decides to take a chance. Slowly, but without hesitation, he strides to the desk and hoist himself on it. Aedan watches him with the same amused expression, sitting back to let him throw his leg over him so it can hang on his other side.

Zevran does enjoy a captive audience. Checking under half-closed lids that he’s got his full attention, he reaches behind his head and begins unravelling his braids. He closes his eyes and arches his back, as though his own fingers against his scalps are the only things that matter to him right now. He hears a ruffle of fabric when he reaches the end of the first one, and he forces himself not to check. He begins working on the second braid, allowing himself to bite at his bottom lip to stifle a moan. It might be a bit of an obvious routine, but it’s always worked, especially since he got those tattoos on his cheek.

Only when his hair is fully loose does he open his eyes again. Aedan seems to have slumped a bit in his chair. His cheeks have taken a pink tinge, and his thumb is swiping mindlessly at his bottom lip. He licks them when he crosses Zevran’s gaze.

The goblet of wine is swaying in his hand. Zevran leans forward very slowly, close enough that he can feel the man’s breath on his lips, and then he draws back before he can realise that he’s snatched the goblet from his hand.

Aedan doesn’t protest, he just waves his hand in defeat. Zevran’s grin grows wider, and he props the heel of his boot on the armrest, right next to Aedan’s elbow. It’s a movement that’s met with the exact reaction Zevran had aimed for: Aedan’s eyes are attracted to his boot, follow the curve of his leg, and land straight onto his groin.

Zevran has a victorious smile ready for him when he looks up. Aedan licks his lips again and watches as he takes a sip of wine before putting the goblet down on the desk. Zevran props both hands flat on the desk behind him, displaying himself as prettily as he can and making sure the collar of his shirt slumps down to expose his collarbone.

He mostly expects Aedan to rise and push him fully onto the desk, so it’s a surprise when he remains seated. After another glance at his face, his attention returns to the bulge in his trousers at eye level. He undoes the lacing with slow movements, while Zevran makes sure to squirm a little for effect.

He can almost hear Aedan swallow when his half-hard cock pops free. Zevran slides his boot farther down the armrest, opening his other leg wider in a clear invitation.

The first contact he’s rewarded with is a warm hand wrapped around the base of his cock. He makes sure to push a moan with his exhale, paired with a slight undulation of his body. Aedan watches his display with knowing, but appreciative eyes. Even between his eyelashes, Zevran can see his blush deepen right before he leans forwards and takes the tip of his cock in his mouth.

“Yes,” he breathes out as he feels a tongue swirl around and under. _Blushing, but no virgin, then_ , he notes. And indeed, the man knows what he’s doing. He doesn’t tease, but instead quickly sets a rhythm, bobbing his head up and down with unrestrained enthusiasm. He doesn’t let his fingers go to waste either. One hand digs further into his trousers, while the other clutches at his hip tightly.

Zevran lets his hands lose grip with every downstroke, lets his balance slowly escape him with every moan he pushes out of his lungs, until he has to give a wordless warning before letting his upper body fall back against the desk. Aedan shifts in his chair to follow him. If it’s an uncomfortable position, he doesn’t show it, and barely interrupts his rhythm.

Zevran makes his chest rise and fall as dramatically as he can, biting onto a finger for show while not stifling his noises in the slightest. He allows his legs to shake around Aedan’s body, his boot to fall from the armrest, and the movements on his cock pick up pace.

“Aedan–” he warns.

Their gazes meet, but the rhythm doesn’t slow. So Zevran lets his head fall against the wood of the desk and doesn’t hold back his orgasm. He comes into Aedan’s mouth, who swallows it without missing a beat.

Zevran lets his body slump completely on the desk for a little while, before gathering himself and making a show of stretching his muscles with a satisfied sigh and closed eyes.

When he looks back at Aedan, he’s sitting neatly in his chair once again. The blush of his cheeks is nearly gone, although the way he’s swiping at his swollen lips gives his recent activity away. Zevran grins at him while tucking himself back in and leans forwards to press the tip of his boot to his inner thigh, close to the bulge stretching the fabric. “We still have some time, if you’d like me to take care of that,” he says, voice hoarse.

The man shakes his head. “Can you just stick around for company?” he asks instead.

 _Interesting_. Zevran shrugs. “Your gold,” he just says as way of an answer. He shakes his messy hair in a failed attempt to get it under control and pulls his legs up to cross them in front of him.

The man gets up and strides towards the door, and for a moment Zevran thinks he might be leaving, but then he turns around with a basket in his hands. “I have some food. If you want.” He puts the basket on the desk and hoists himself next to it. The desk creaks under their combined weight, and Zevran wonders briefly if they’re both going to be sent tumbling, but it seems to hold.

Aedan takes some fruit and pieces of cheese from the basket and begins to nibble on them, gaze lost in empty space. Zevran stares at the movement of his jaw around the food, and the way his lips close around a strawberry-stained finger. He’s so much more used to people gazing at _him_ than the other way around that he feels dizzy for a second.

He clears his throat and grabs a bunch of grapes to get rid of the aftertaste of the unexpected. “First time in Antiva, hmm?” he asks before popping a grape in his mouth.

The man looks startled out of his thoughts. “Uh? Oh. Yeah.”

“Official duties?” Zevran risks. That gets him a squinted look.

“Who said anything about official?”

Zevran shrugs and reaches for the discarded wine goblet. “Rich men use my services all the time. But they always come to _me_ , you see. The _Señora_ doesn’t send her people running across town. You must be an important man.” He takes a sip of wine. The man relaxes a bit, though he doesn’t take his eyes off him. Zevran considers him for a few seconds. “May I be so bold as to ask you something?” he finally says.

“Go ahead.”

“I doubt this is the first time you are paying for company,” Zevran speculates. “Whoever you are, are you not afraid that some less scrupulous guest might spill your secrets?”

“Everyone’s been too smart for that so far.” Aedan bites into a piece of cheese.

Zevran laughs. “Ah, but you haven’t been in Antiva before!” He twists his shoulders and throws a heavy-lidded glance at him. “Never trust Antivans.”

“Not even you?” There’s a smile playing at the corners of Aedan’s lips.

Zevran raises the goblet he’s holding. “I did steal your wine, did I not?”

His comment is rewarded by an honest laugh that warms something in him. “You really are all hooligans.”

Zevran gives an exaggerated sigh. “I know, I know.”

They eat in silence for a while. Zevran passes him the goblet when he gestures for it, and he smiles at him when they lock eyes. _This is nice_ , Zevran finds himself thinking.

It’s not that he hates his job. It’s a job. It keeps a roof over his head and a nice amount of coin in his pockets. His clients are alright, for the most part, they’re respectful and they enjoy Zevran giving them a bit of a show.

But even then, it rarely gets to a point where it’s… _Nice_. Where Zevran wishes he could stay for longer. Spend some more time together, just to chat, or maybe to fool around. Whatever feels right.

But that’s not how his services work. “I should go back, else the _Señora_ will worry,” he says.

Aedan nods slowly, not quite meeting his eyes. “Of course.” He hops off the desk right when Zevran does, and walks to the entrance, where his coat is hanging. “Here,” he says, digging into his pocket. He deposits three sovereigns into Zevran’s hand. “A little extra, for not having finished my wine.”

Zevran slips the coins into his boot and gives a bow. “You know where to find me, should you find yourself in need of company.” His grin widens. “I’m sure I could show you a great deal more about Antivan ways.” He throws a wink at Aedan over his shoulder, and then he’s out the door in a flash.


	2. Yours for the night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *content warning in this chapter for violence and blood*

Winter has the time to settle upon Antiva and leave again, before Zevran hears once more of his _special client_. The news gets to him just as he’s sharing work stories and bread with Taliesen, in the shape of a teenage boy peeking through the door to the brothel's backroom. His eyes flash quickly between the two men.

“You seem a bit young to be here, _niño_ ,” Zevran comments, a piece of bread halfway to his mouth.

The boy considers his open shirt with red cheeks, before his eyes snap back up towards his face. “I– I left the money with the lady. She told me I could find him here.”

“Who?” Taliesen asks, voice snapping in the air like a whip.

The boy unfolds a piece of parchment with shaky fingers. “Z–Zevran?” He lifts a hopeful gaze towards them, still unsure who to look at.

Zevran raises an eyebrow in his direction, before shooting a smirk at Taliesen. “Who’s asking?”

“He– he told me to say it was Aedan.”

Zevran’s grin widens. “Aedan, hmm?” he says, not even trying to hide the contentment in his voice.

At his side, Taliesen scoffs. “Is that…?”

Zevran nods at him. “Oh yes. _Special client_.”

Even more special than he’d initially thought, if the rumours Taliesen and him have heard are true. There were talks of the King of Ferelden being in Antiva City for some diplomatic visit, back when Zevran had first met his client, and the descriptions he’d sought afterwards had seemed to match. It was a funny enough fantasy, but Zevran has definitely been holding his breath since he first heard of a new meeting of the Kings. He catches the same realisation in Taliesen’s eyes. He extends a hand towards the young messenger. “Is there an address on that parchment, _niño_?” The kid nods hurriedly and gives him the paper.

“Run now, boy.” Taliesen growls. “Come back when there’s hair on your chest.”

The kid obeys without hesitation. The door swings shut behind him, the wind of it threatening to blow out the single candle lighting the room. Zevran pockets the parchment and sighs. “He is merely doing his job, Tal’. You needn’t yell at him.”

“Yeah, just like _we’re_ doing our jobs, right?”

_There we go again._

Taliesen takes a deep breath. “Don’t you aspire to more, Zevran?”

“More? Is this not good enough?” Zevran doesn’t even know why he tries to reason him anymore. “The _Señora_ treats us well, and the pay is not so bad, hmm?”

Taliesen waves dismissively, his teeth bared in the scowl that Zevran’s grown used to these days. “Don’t play innocent. You know what I’m talking about.”

Zevran stares at him for a moment. Taliesen’s become angrier with each passing month, and it’s starting to worry him. He’s never been the easier of people, even when they were both children, but he’s always at least looked more happy than bitter. Not these days, though. Every conversation is starting to feel like a trap which neither of them know how to avoid.

Zevran sighs. “I should go.”

* * *

The inn, as well as the room, are identical to their previous encounter’s. Zevran walks down the hallway without waiting for any instruction, and the voice that answers to his knocks stirs something like fondness in his gut.

His client isn’t sitting at the desk this time. He opens the door himself, before Zevran even has time to reach for the doorknob. His hair looks darker in the dim light of the entrance, and there’s a faint, if genuine, smile on his lips. Zevran bows. “It is rather nice to be summoned by one’s name–” he straightens up to catch his reaction before finishing, “Your Majesty.”

Alistair’s smile vanishes. “How did you know,” he asks, body going stiff.

“I was right, then!” Zevran grins. “Rumours are fast and accurate in Antiva. The rest was simple work of deduction, really.”

“Are you…” Alistair shakes his head, squaring his shoulders like Zevran has seen soldiers do. “Are you threatening me?”

Zevran laughs. “No, not at all! I simply thought I should share my discovery with you. I do hate to keep secrets from my clients.”

Alistair doesn’t move, but his face does relax as he scans Zevran’s. “Alright,” he says after a pause.

He walks into the room, and Zevran saunters after him. “You paid quite handsomely,” he says, “I believe I am yours until the sun rises, Your Majesty.”

“No, please don’t– don’t do that.” There’s a grimace in his voice. “Call me Alistair.”

“As you wish.”

Alistair stops in the middle of the room and turns to face him, expression unreadable. Zevran grins, cocking a hip and tilting his head so that his hair will tumble across the white fabric covering his shoulder.

“What do you like?” Alistair asks after a silence.

Zevran steps forward and hooks a finger in Alistair’s jacket, bringing himself close enough that he has to look up through his eyelashes to meet his gaze. “I am talented at many things, my friend,” he rumbles.

Alistair shakes his head. “What do _you_ like?” he repeats. He doesn’t move away, but he doesn’t react to Zevran’s proximity either. He looks...in control. Zevran briefly wonders whether that’s the game he’s playing. Dominance. Proving Zevran, or himself, that he can spoil another without even sparing a thought for himself.

That’s a role Zevran can play. He grins with an air of conspiracy. “Are you considering taking care of me, just like our last delightful encounter?”

“Is it what you want?”

Zevran twists a little closer, gazing up at his lips through heavy-lidded eyes. “I do enjoy your mouth on me,” he murmurs. He’s rewarded by a faint blush spreading across Alistair’s cheeks, and it looks simply _lovely_ from up-close.

“Bed?” Alistair offers, voice thick.

“Gladly.” Zevran lets go of Alistair’s jacket to sway towards the neatly done bed. He climbs on it without removing his boots and twists his body around to rest on his elbows. He watches Alistair walk around the bed.

He looks calm, but he doesn’t take his eyes off Zevran for a single moment. He gazes at his hair, his neck, follows the curve of his torso with a tilted head. Not predator-like, as many clients before have watched Zevran, but… Considering. Curious. His eyes go back up to the tattoos on his cheek, so Zevran makes a move of mock coyness to expose them more to his audience.

Actually, if he enjoys tattoos…

Zevran sits up just enough to strip off his shirt. The fabric is soft, it’s an expensive garment that he’s been saving for for a long time, and it slides across his skin to reveal the black lines running on his torso. He doesn’t look back at Alistair straight away. Instead he discards the shirt at the corner of the bed and lies back on it with closed eyes, stretching leisurely. He sighs with content, tangles his legs and arches his back.

He smiles as the mattress dips at his side. When he opens his eyes, Alistair is kneeling on the bed. He’s fully clothed. He’s gazing down at the line that begins at Zevran’s belly button, curls around his hip and disappears into his trousers. He lowers a hesitant hand and puts two fingers at the top of the design. Zevran arches into the touch as Alistair silently traces down it with a focused frown. His fingers stop upon hitting the top of his trousers. He looks back up at Zevran, who answers with a wink.

Alistair unlaces his trousers just as slowly as last time. He moves to settle between Zevran’s legs, and his hot breath soon covers him.

Contrary to their last encounter, Alistair takes his time. The swirl of his tongue is almost on the wrong side of teasing, and it’s quickly got Zevran aching for more.

Good aching. The kind that slowly makes him lose control of his carefully calculated breathing, the kind that would _almost_ make him beg. He throws his head back onto the bed, tears threatening to spill, as Alistair’s hand strokes the side of his hip, right where the tattoo slithers into his trousers.

Alistair interrupts his task for just a second, and asks hoarsely, “Is it what you like?”

Zevran squeezes his eyes to keep them from overflowing. He can almost hear Alistair’s blush in his voice. “Yes,” he breathes, “Yes…” He curses himself when Alistair goes back to his maddening rhythm. But it’s good, it really is good. Sometimes pleasure is to be savoured, to be drawn out until all that Zevran can hear is his own heartbeat.

He comes in Alistair’s mouth with a wordless cry after what feels like blurred hours, and his shuddering breath has nothing to do with showing off. He is vaguely aware of Alistair tucking him back in and lacing his trousers with shaking fingers.

By the time Zevran has fully regained control of himself, Alistair is laying by his sides, still fully clothed, looking at the ceiling with white knuckled fingers hooked together over his chest.

Zevran frowns.

He’s met many people, and even more tastes that strayed far from what would be considered conventional. One thing he’s never seen, however, is a client who doesn’t even try to touch themselves.

He rolls onto his belly and props his chin on his closed fists to gaze at Alistair, who starts squirming when he notices. “What?”

Zevran hums to himself. “Why do you not wish to be touched?” He cocks an eyebrow as something else occurs to him. “Or is it only me?”

He watches carefully as Alistair rubs his chin with a grimace. “No…no. It’s not only you.”

“Why, then?”

Alistair takes a deep breath, eyes fixed to the ceiling and hand falling back against his chest. “I…lost someone.” He blinks, just a little too long. “We were close. We fought together.” He twists his hands. “He was my first,” he adds in a lower voice.

“Hmm. Are you punishing yourself?” Zevran asks curiously.

Alistair’s hand flies to his face again, this time covering his eyes. A silence floats for a moment before he answers. “Not really. I don’t think so. I suppose I’m…” He shakes his head, a frown twisting his features. “I’m still grieving. I’m not ready to have someone else touch me.” His voice is soft, almost like he’s forgotten he’s talking to someone.

“Yet you still use my services,” Zevran remarks.

“Yeah. I don’t know, I guess…” He turns his entire body towards Zevran and stares straight at him. “I guess I like knowing I can still make someone feel good. It reminds me I’m not dead.”

Zevran’s lips curl. “And you do a marvellous job of it, my dear Alistair.”

That earns him a blush, accompanied by a faint smile. “I’m glad,” Alistair murmurs.

They gaze at each other for a while, and just like last time, Zevran is overcome by the feeling of how very _nice_ this is. Just laying close to him, the heat of his body radiating faintly around him and the breath from Alistair’s half-open mouth crashing against his skin. Zevran clears his throat to hide a shiver. “Was he a soldier?”

Alistair shakes his head, and then nods. “He, uh. You might know him as the Hero of Ferelden?”

Zevran barks a quick laugh. “Surely you are joking!” Alistair’s expression gives him an answer. “The Hero of Ferelden, and its King? Oh, now _that’s_ a story!”

Alistair mirrors his smile with a shaky one of his own. Zevran stops chuckling when a thought occurs to him. He frowns. “Was he not… Was he not called…”

“Aedan,” Alistair murmurs.

“Aedan.” Zevran searches his eyes. “That’s the name you gave me when we first met.”

Alistair nods, the stubble on his cheek catching on the bedsheets.

“Why?” Zevran asks.

Alistair shrugs, rolling onto his back to stare at the ceiling again. “I don’t know. I guess it felt like the only appropriate one.” He huffs a laughter that’s devoid of happiness. “Maker, I must sound like a maniac.”

“You do not. Trust me when I tell you that I have heard much worse.”

“Thank you.”

Zevran isn’t quite sure why he’s being thanked, but he accepts it without question. He doubts Alistair knows any more.

They spend the following few hours laying in bed, Zevran’s head nestled in the crook of Alistair’s hip. He puts his shirt back on when the cold starts creeping in, and Alistair watches but says nothing. They talk for a while, and then Zevran thinks they fall asleep, but when he feels the body under him shift he just isn’t certain. Alistair talks about the Blight, about fighting Darkspawn and sleeping in cold tents. He doesn’t mention Aedan.

And then he asks him about his own life, and Zevran picks the most outrageous stories and spins them into tales that make Alistair smile. He illustrates them by vivid hand movements above him that knock his hair free. Alistair pushes it back silently when it falls over his face, and that stops Zevran dead in his tracks. It takes him a few seconds to gather his thoughts back together, and he hopes his story is scandalous enough that Alistair won’t notice the hitch in his breath.

When the time to leave comes, they find themselves both standing next to the door, neither one moving. Zevran fidgets with the few coins he’s just received as a tip. Alistair worries at his lip, and Zevran waits for him to gather his words.

“How can I trust that you’ll keep my identity a secret?” he finally asks.

“Ah,” Zevran chuckles, “because running my mouth would cost me a very wealthy client.”

Alistair nods. “Oh,” he just says, and the barely contained disappointment twists something in Zevran’s heart.

“Oh, do not get me wrong,” he says, words too hurried to sound nonchalant, “I would also greatly miss your company, but I doubt me swearing on my enthrallment would hold much weight.” He winks to alleviate the tension of too-heavy implied truths.

Alistair nods, in the stiff way that Zevran can picture him do in Court. He himself leaves with a bow, and a sour taste in his mouth.

* * *

“So, is he really…”

“King?” Zevran chuckles. “Oh, yes.”

Taliesen doesn’t look amused by the situation. Zevran wonders why he’s come all the way to the inn to walk back with him, if he’s still not over the previous night’s argument. And then he has the fleeting thought, _he’s looking for a fight_. He shakes his head and looks up at the bright early morning sky.

“This is stupid,” Taliesen says after a silence. “All of this. You know we should have become Crows.”

 _No preparation, then, straight into it_.

Zevran refuses to let him trap himself into tales of lives that could have been. “No. They all died, Tal’.” He doesn’t care if it hurts. Maybe hurting is what Taliesen needs. “Do you not remember? _Every single person_ that we grew up with.” Zevran falls back as Taliesen’s strides become wider, and he raises his voice when he continues, “Don’t you _dare_ say the Crows gave them an opportunity, when the only thing they gave them is an early grave. I saved both of us when I hid us from the recruiters.”

Taliesen spins back towards him in the narrow alleyway, shaking his head vigorously. “You don’t _know_ that. We might have made it. We _could_ have made it.”

“Ah, come now,” Zevran says with a flourish of his hand, “a life in a brothel is no worse than a probable death at the hands of the Crows.”

Taliesen laughs a bitter, humourless laugh. It echoes in the empty street. “It’s easy for you to say!”

Zevran stops at that. Taliesen is breathing fast, jaw clenched so tightly it looks painful. “What is this really about, Taliesen?” Zevran asks, the exhaustion evident in his voice.

“Him.”

“Him?”

The next sentence comes from between Taliesen’s teeth, like he’s fighting against himself even as he says it. “It must be _so_ easy to be content with a life as a whore, when you’re a King’s favourite.”

Zevran clicks his tongue. “Aah, so there it is. You are jealous.”

Taliesen’s breath hitches. A muscle on his cheek twitches, and Zevran is still focused on that when the fist collides with his face.

He stumbles back, hands pressed to his nose before he’s even realised he raised them. His palms feel warm, and wet, and he can’t seem to regain his balance. He drops heavily onto the pavement. From a corner of his blurred vision, he sees Taliesen advance towards him. “So what,” he says, metallic blood dripping into his mouth, “are you intending on beating me for having a client you did not get?”

Taliesen spits on the ground between them. “This is not about any client of yours. I don’t care about him.” He steps closer. “You had no right to keep me from the Crows.” His voice is lower, but there’s still the tremor Zevran has come to recognise as devoted trust in his own point of view. “First you keep me from becoming an assassin, and now that there’s an opportunity to elevate our status, _of course_ it falls onto you!” Taliesen takes a stumbling step backwards, only to approach him again and crouch by his side. He brings his face so close that Zevran can only see part of it. “The King should have been mine. Two minutes later, _you_ would have been busy with a client, and _I_ would have had the King.”

Anger. It’s not exactly the first time someone has used Zevran as an outlet for it, but it’s usually in the brothel, where he’s got the advantage of knowing his environment, and where he can scream for help.

Not here.

No one will put themselves in danger for an elf, not to mention a whore. And Taliesen is simply better at this than him. He trains in his free time. He’s heavier, faster, and he’s got his opponent on the ground already. If he wants to kill Zevran, here and there, there’s nothing to be done about it.

Zevran curls into a ball and waits.


	3. Yours to worry about

Alistair barely has an hour to breathe between the moment he arrives in Denerim and the moment he’s buried in paperwork and duties. The trip from Antiva was as long and boring as usual, but he begins missing it when he sees the piles of unopened letters waiting on his desk. He riffles through them half-heartedly, seriously weighing how bad it would be if the King snuck out of his own office on his first day back.

The task of dealing with all the letters is so daunting that he’s grateful when one of his advisors ask him to accompany him to the market to show his face and discuss a few issues that have risen in his absence. Alistair gathers a couple guards – Maker, guards to go to the market, he’ll never get used to that – and distractedly follows his advisor out of the castle and into the city.

As the man goes on about some kind of tax, Alistair feels his attention drifting. He thinks of blond hair between his fingers, and of easy laughter surrounded by rolled Rs. It’s a good daydream, one that’s been on his mind a lot since his first visit in Antiva.

It takes him a second to realise that the rolled Rs aren’t only part of his daydream. He blinks at the hooded figure standing by a nearby merchant’s stand and shakes his head. He can’t let himself be distracted every time he walks by an Antivan.

An Antivan with blond hair spilling from his hood.

“Zevran?”

The man whirls around. He looks surprised, and not entirely pleased. He glances quickly left and right, exposing the tattoos on his cheek. “My friend.” The word slips from his lips, thick with discomfort.

“Zevran, what–”

Before he can continue, Zevran has nodded to the side and is heading towards a nearby weapons shop, dark coat flying in his wake. Alistair stands still for a second, too dazed to react, only coming to when his advisor calls his name. Alistair apologises hastily to him, asks his guards to stay at the door with a few stuttering words and some vague gestures, and follows Zevran into the shop.

The inside is so dark compared to the bright light of the midday sun that it takes Alistair a second to see the room. It’s small, and the walls are lined with tables and stands full of polished blades. There isn’t any client. In the back of the room stands the smith, a middle-aged man that Alistair vaguely knows, who bows upon recognising him and then disappears silently in a backroom when he sees something in his posture.

Zevran is standing in profile by one of the tables. His head is bent, hair falling in front of his face, and he’s examining a dagger with a dainty sort of unfamiliarity. He flinches when Alistair says his name but doesn’t turn.

“Your Majesty,” he says, tone even. Not overly respectful, not mocking either. It sounds wrong.

Alistair’s own voice sounds muffled. “What are you doing in Ferelden?”

This time when Zevran speaks, there’s the familiar smile in his tone. “I was feeling adventurous, as it were.” Slowly, without putting the dagger back on the table, he turns and looks up at Alistair. His smile is a bit too flat to be genuine. “I’m sure my exotic charms will be much more appreciated down south, hmm?”

“You…were feeling adventurous,” Alistair echoes.

“Yes! I met a rather captivating Captain who agreed to take me somewhere new in exchange for a few sovereigns.”

There’s something about Zevran’s attitude. He’s not moving around while talking, as he usually does. Even the way he looks at Alistair isn’t quite right. He doesn’t look like he’s enjoying himself just by talking to him – though Alistair reminds himself just in time that he’s not currently getting paid to pretend. “Are you…” Alistair pauses, shakes his head, and starts again: “Did you come to Ferelden on purpose?”

Zevran cocks an eyebrow. “I did very much know where my ship was headed, yes.”

“No, I mean…” He has to know. “Did you come because of me?”

Zevran’s whole attitude changes then. He moves backwards, the knuckles on the dagger going white as he tilts his head down, looking up at him with something like anger. “No.” His jaw clenches. “I did not come to Denerim because _you_ were here.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean–”

Zevran cuts him before he can finish. “If it bothers you so, you can probably exile me, can you not?” His chest is rising and falling fast, contradicting the cold defiance of his voice.

Alistair feels uncomfortable shivers at his neck. _Right. King._ “I misspoke,” he says, trying to figure out what he’s said exactly to make Zevran lift his defences up so quickly. “I’m sorry. It’s none of my business.” His gaze falls onto the dirt at Zevran’s feet.

The noise from the dagger being laid back on the display table is muted, like Zevran put particular care in it. When he talks again his tone is just as easy as usual, as though nothing has happened, and he returns Alistair’s glance unblinkingly. “I am intending on sticking around. I have heard of an establishment that would no doubt welcome an Antivan addition, what is it called…” He squints and hums. “The Pearl, I believe?” He holds Alistair’s gaze for a few seconds that stretch and clears his throat. “Well, if you ever wish for some company, you know where to find me.” And with that he steps around Alistair and heads for the door.

“Wait–” Alistair grabs his forearm to stop him, only to be halted by a jolt and a hiss. He drops his hand as quickly as if it had burnt him, and Zevran whirls around. For a moment they stare at each other, Zevran’s own hand holding his arm where Alistair’s was just a second ago.

It’s Zevran who breaks eye contact first, his gaze falling to the ground. It’s a new behaviour, and Alistair isn’t sure he likes it. “What happened?” he murmurs.

Zevran looks back at him, and then glances to the side towards the backroom. He unbuttons his cuff and pushes his sleeve just high enough to reveal a thick bandage wrapped around his wrist and disappearing under the rest of the garment. It’s the kind of makeshift cast the Wardens used to wear when bones had been broken and neither healer nor herbs were available on hand. Alistair barely reminds himself in time not to startle forward and grab the wounded limb to examine it, a habit he still hasn’t dropped from being a soldier.

Zevran pulls his sleeve back down and rebuttons it without a word.

“What happened?” Alistair asks again.

Zevran clicks his tongue, and when he looks back up at him he’s wearing a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Denerim is full of dangers, my friend.”

_That doesn’t sound right._

“No, no, you just got here, there’s no way you’ve gotten hurt already.” Alistair’s breath catches as something occurs to him. “You got this in Antiva.” It’s not a question, and Zevran doesn’t pretend that it is. “Is it why you left?”

Zevran’s features twist into something resembling a wince, though Alistair finds it hard to tell, under so much practiced acting. “Come now Alistair, you should not stereotype us Antivans! We can also play nice with each other on occasion.” He grins and looks up at Alistair from the corner of his half-closed eyes, in a way that he guesses is meant to distract him. He curses himself when it works.

Zevran uses his daze to cut the conversation short. “So long, then!” he says, as though their exchange has reached its natural conclusion. “Good luck with your Kingly duties.” His tone is unreadable, and he slips out the door before Alistair can react. By the time he pushes the door to follow, Zevran is nowhere to be seen in the busy market.

“Your Majesty?” the advisor calls when he notices him, interrupting his pacing. “What happened?”

Alistair shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he mumbles.


	4. Yours to hide

Summer brings with it a warmth that’s appreciated in the Denerim castle, even though worries of dried crops start taking up most of Alistair’s energy. The long days bring with them the possibility to take walks around the Royal Gardens, even when his meetings stretch into the evening, so Alistair takes that opportunity as often as he can.

He leaves coats, ornaments, and knife in his rooms, and goes to wander among the carefully trimmed bushes in the courtyard. He finds himself buzzing with restlessness, consequence of being stuck between four walls that never change after a lifetime of constant moving. Castle, to monastery, to being on the move with the Wardens… To being on the move with _a_ Warden.

Aedan.

Alistair takes a shuddering breath. That name still feels heavy in his gut. He braces both hands on each side of his thighs and squeezes the stone bench on which he's seated until the sting of it is stronger than the burn of starkly remembered fingers on his jaw.

He’s been told he shouldn’t push away thoughts of him, but he can’t quite bear them yet. He hopes he’ll soon be brave enough to confront the memory of Aedan’s dying smile.

He slumps until his back rests against the wall and lets himself soak in the rustle of leaves in the evening’s golden light. He only gets up when the chill of dusk starts settling uncomfortably on his shoulders, walking unhurriedly through the long hallways leading to his bedrooms.

When he’d first moved here, it had taken him a full month to get used to them. The bed was too big, too soft, the sheets too expensive and heavy, and neither was doing anything to keep the nightmares away.

It’s still far too big and far too soft, but he’s learnt to tune it out. He had no other choice, after spending so many nights wandering across his rooms that he’s learnt every stone of them, every notch on his desk, every spot where the floor dips or tiles crack under his weight.

So, if nothing else, he knows his bedrooms.

And he knows no-one, neither him nor servants, have a habit of leaving his door ajar.

He curses himself for leaving his knife inside. If someone has gotten into the castle, they’ll find the King wandering around with no guard, no protection, and no weapon of any sort. Alistair isn’t completely useless in a fist fight, but still, he’d rather not take his chances with someone who might be armed.

But then again… If someone _is_ in the castle, they could be anywhere. Including on his path to the weapons room, or the kitchens, or any place susceptible to hold something sharp.

He likes his odds better in his rooms. He knows exactly where he’s left his small knife, right by the candle on his desk, and he’s reasonably sure he can find something to use as a makeshift shield if needs be.

He takes a deep breath and pushes the door open, quickly but silently, reverting to a defensive stance before the door has even stilled. The knife is right there on the desk, just across the room.

Behind it, the shadows move.

And before Alistair can react, the shape has stepped forward with a bright smile.

“Alistair!” Zevran opens his arms widely, as though him being here is a completely normal and expected occurrence.

Alistair stays in his defensive stance for a few seconds, too stunned to move, before dropping it. “What– What are you doing here?”

Zevran tilts his head and presents both palms forward in good faith. “Why, I’m visiting a dear friend of course.”

Alistair squints. “No, you’re not.”

“No, I’m not,” Zevran admits. There’s an amused glint in the crinkle of his eyes. “I am…keeping myself out of the way, as it were.”

Alistair scoffs incredulously. “You’re hiding.”

Zevran laughs and winks at him, taking a few steps forward. “Perhaps.”

Behind Alistair, there’s the sound of shuffling footsteps and servants chatting. He turns around to close the door and takes a deep breath before spinning back towards Zevran. “What happened?”

“Funny story, that. You do remember I went to work for the Pearl, yes?” When Alistair nods, he continues: “Well, let us just say that a colleague of mine attracted the wrong kind of attention. Rich fellow, handsome enough, but a little too…” Zevran brings his own hand to his throat, as though cutting the flow of air. “…passionate, shall we say. I gave her what coin I had and took her to the port.” He waves a hand to the side. “She is long gone by now, but I’m afraid that her client is not a very forgiving man.”

“Maker, do you… Do you need anything? Gold, guards?” Alistair isn’t quite sure how he would justify the use of royal guards to escort an Antivan elf, but it feels irresponsible not to offer. Zevran swats the proposition away.

“No need, my friend. If you will allow me to stay here for the night, I believe our _amante_ will be worn off enough that I can leave the city unnoticed.”

An uncomfortable knot forms in Alistair’s gut.

It’s not like he has any kind of claim on Zevran. Maker, it’s not like he’s even sought his company since he moved to Denerim! It wasn’t out of a lack of interest, but he’s been so busy, and no plan he’s come up with offered a discreet enough way to contact him.

“You’re leaving?” He hears the high pitch of his own muffled voice, and he mentally kicks himself. Zevran doesn’t comment on it, thankfully. Instead he tilts his head to the side and gazes in the direction of the window.

“Yes,” he says, dreamy-voiced, “I was considering selling my services as a mercenary.”

“You!?” Alistair didn’t mean it to sound quite so incredulous, but Zevran doesn’t seem offended. He laughs and returns his look.

“I have been training, my dear Alistair! And an establishment like the Pearl offers the advantage of meeting all kinds of people.” He shrugs with a single shoulder. “Even the kind that would welcome and train me, if I manage to catch up with them before they leave Ferelden.”

Alistair nods and swallow. It’s the only thing he can do to keep himself from saying anything stupid. He clears his throat. “You–You’re welcome to stay here as long as you need.”

“Very well! I am in your debt, my friend.” He bows his head a little, and then simply walks to the table set by the window and comes back with two goblets of wine.

The King’s wine.

Alistair blinks as he takes his goblet and laughs when Zevran starts drinking without further ado.

Zevran brings the wine down and squints at him. “What?”

“You’re not following etiquette.”

Zevran has a sly kind of smile and lifts his goblet. “How terribly rude of me, I certainly hope it does not reflect poorly on my manners.”

Alistair hides his smile by taking a mouthful of wine. He enjoys Zevran’s careless defiance. It’s refreshing, compared to the rigidity of Court, where barely anyone even dares say his name.

Zevran closes his eyes to enjoy the drink, and Alistair takes the opportunity to look at him.

_Maker, but he’s beautiful._

His hair is styled exactly like he’s always seen it, two braids starting just above his ears and joining at the back of his head. And just like always, Alistair itches with the desire to run his hand through the golden locks, to find out for himself if they’re as soft as they look.

Zevran shifts his body, and a glint on his chest attracts Alistair’s gaze. There’s a golden brooch on the front of his coat, small but lovingly polished. The coat itself is made of a dark fabric, and it’s got a wide hood that’s now resting around Zevran’s shoulders. It’s most likely a useful garment when one is running from people who wish to hurt them.

Again.

Alistair frowns, his eyes instinctively going to Zevran’s forearm, even though the bones must have healed long ago.

“Now, my dear Alistair.”

Alistair’s eyes snap upwards. How long had Zevran been looking? He’s smirking up at him, thumb swiping in slow, controlled motions along the rim of his goblet and back. “It would be a shame to waste such a wonderful bed, wouldn’t it?”

Alistair glances quickly at the neat arrangement of blankets and pillows, and he’s struck with the image of Zevran laying among them, shirtless, hands twisting the expensive materials. His mouth goes dry. When he looks back at Zevran, he’s welcome by a cocked eyebrow.

“I– I don’t keep any coin here,” he mutters, annoyed at himself.

Zevran waves dismissively. “Ah, but I do believe I quit my previous occupation when I helped that girl. Think of this as...” He lifts his free hand and lays it right in the centre of Alistair’s chest, eyes fixed on it. “Celebration.” He looks back up at him with a smirk.

Alistair shakes his head. “I don’t get it. You want to celebrate not bedding people for money by… bedding someone?”

Zevran’s face lights up. “Oh, yes. Bedding _you_.”

“Is _that_ why you came here?”

Zevran shrugs. “No, but if a night is to be waited, one might as well use it wisely, hmm?” He frowns. “Unless you do not wish to.”

“No. Yes.” Alistair shakes his head and lets his gaze wander openly on Zevran’s features. On the shape of his jaw, along the slim neck leading to his collarbone, and, right there, to the tip of an inked line poking from his coat. “I’ve missed touching you,” he finally murmurs.

Zevran hums in approval. He looks entirely like a satisfied cat, eyes half-closed and crooked smile to complete the illusion.

They stand in silence for a few moments, and it’s Alistair who moves first. He takes Zevran’s goblet from his hand and puts it with his on the desk. He’s acutely aware of Zevran’s attention on his every movement, so he’s thankful when his hands don’t shake when he brings them to Zevran’s collar. He undoes the latch of his coat and lays it on the desk next to the wine.

Under the coat, Zevran is wearing one of these loose white shirts he seems to favour. The kind that would almost be transparent, given the right light. He pushes the fabric towards Zevran’s body until he reaches his side, enraptured in the way it flows and bunches around his hand. Zevran curls into the touch, almost purring. His skin is hot through the fabric, the ribs ever-so-slightly raised under his fingers when Zevran stretches to chase the contact.

“Are we getting there?” Zevran murmurs, with more amusement than venom.

“Growing impatient?”

“Something like that.” Zevran escapes his grasp then, climbing onto the bed before Alistair can even react. “You see,” Zevran says, removing one leather boot and then the other, “If you do not take care of me, I might have to do all the work myself.”

 _Now there’s an idea_. Alistair’s breath falls short at the very tempting image of Zevran getting himself off in his bed; but the desire to make him feel good himself is too powerful. He lets Zevran remove his own shirt with a flourish and a heated glance, but he’s joined him on the bed by the time his hands are at the waistband of his trousers. “Allow me?” he asks.

Zevran lets his upper body fall onto the bed by way of an answer, pulling a pillow under his head so he can watch Alistair work.

The trousers are new, Alistair notices, before getting a pleasant jolt when he realises he knows this sort of details about Zevran. He undoes the lacing and pushes the garment down and off, half-hard cock springing free, and soon Zevran is laying completely naked on his bed. He’s sprawling with the same attitude he always wears: shameless, and with the look of someone who knows things that no one else does. He lifts his arms and tucks both hands under the pillow that supports his head, gazing at Alistair with curiosity. He doesn’t even try to steer the proceedings this time, just watches as Alistair considers his tattoos.

They wrap everywhere, like vines, around ribs and hips and legs. The ones starting at his belly button, the ones that intrigued Alistair so much on their second encounter, continue towards his inner thigh and dips there, invisible again. Zevran lifts his knee helpfully when he reaches down. Alistair wraps an arm around his calf and tilts his head to follow the pattern.

It stops just short of the back of his knee, where the skin is thin and sensitive. Alistair puts a finger there and follows the ink back up until it reaches the inside of his thigh, where he kisses the warm skin instead.

Farther up, on the pillows, Zevran lets out a noise that sounds suspiciously like a muffled gasp. When Alistair looks up he finds a steady, almost defiant gaze, but Zevran’s pink cheeks tell another story.

Alistair detaches his attention from the tattoos and swallows when he realises Zevran’s grown fully hard just from the attention on his thigh. He smirks up at Zevran, who answers with nothing but a cocked eyebrow.

Alistair settles in a better position, letting his breath crash against Zevran’s cock for a few considering exhales before he leans forward and licks him once, from root to tip, eyes locked with Zevran. He’s rewarded by a very shaky exhale and a quirk of his lips as an admission.

Alistair doesn’t want to tease any more though, so he moves forward again and take the head in his mouth, tongue swirling around it. He wraps a hand around the base of his cock before letting it drift, cupping his balls with careful touches.

Zevran inhales sharply when his fingers brush further down, and Alistair pops off his cock with mild alarm. “Do you– do you like...”

Zevran’s lips curl in an expression that has an edge, amusement woven with anticipation. “I do enjoy a little exploration, provided lubrication is used.” He licks his lips deliberately, looking down at Alistair through heavy lids.

“I have oil,” Alistair says, a little breathlessly.

He barely catches Zevran’s satisfied smile before he scrambles off the bed and goes rummaging through his wardrobe. When he turns back around with the small vial, Zevran is splayed out on the bed like he could wait all night, fingers still hooked behind his head as he watches him return to the bed.

Alistair finds the best position between his legs and settles there. He coats both hands in oil under Zevran’s attentive gaze before putting the vial aside. His first touch, just a palm against the underside of his cock, is rewarded by a low groan and an aborted thrust of Zevran’s hips that makes Alistair’s breath come short. He licks his lips.

When he looks up, Zevran throws his head back against the bed, exposing throat and chest. “Must you tease so mercilessly?” Zevran’s voice is strained thin, and Alistair can’t bring himself to deny him any longer. He closes one fist around his cock and lets his other hand dip below, fingers brushing at the sensitive skin and then sinking into him.

Zevran’s noises are different than the last times. They come from his lungs rather than his vocal chords, they’re full of raspy breaths, groans and half-contained whines, rather than the almost-shouts he was making on their previous encounters. And somehow, it’s even more thrilling.

 _This is him,_ Alistair thinks, heart racing, _this is really him. Not the paid performance, this is Zevran enjoying himself._

And Maker does that thought go straight to his own cock.

He feels Zevran’s incoming orgasm in the pressure on his fingers and the way his legs start shaking around Alistair. Zevran reaches down with a trembling hand and grabs his sleeve as a warning, before letting go as his body snaps back against the bed and he spills through Alistair’s fingers and onto his own stomach.

Alistair gets up from the bed as soon as he can and walks to the bathroom in hurried steps to wash his hands. He tries to use the time alone to calm himself, but he can’t fight it.

That _shift_.

He needs, he wants…not sex, not just the mere satisfaction of release. He wants this, right there, Zevran in his bed, pink-cheeked under his tattoos, blond hair spilling from its braids and tangling around his face. He wants to taste his lips and feel his tongue against his skin.

He closes his eyes as tight as he can against the wave of images, but it only makes them more vivid. He feels his heart beat in his ears, quick and stuttering, like he hasn’t felt since– since Aedan first kissed him.

When it becomes apparent that a longer absence would be noticed he walks back into the main room, shoulders held tight and eyes locked on his twisting fingers.

“Ah!” There’s a smile and a joke in Zevran’s voice, but he doesn’t continue. A few long seconds pass, where Alistair can feel Zevran’s gaze on him, and he doesn’t quite know what to do with it.

“Come, _pobrecito_.” Zevran’s voice is low, but it cuts through Alistair’s panic. He shuffles to the bed and sits on it, back to Zevran, unable to look at him. He startles when long fingers wrap loosely around his wrist. “You can,” Zevran murmurs. “You should.”

When Alistair doesn’t answer, he continues on the same low voice: “I have seen many grieving men, Alistair. I do not speak lightly when I say this: you must push forward if you wish for it to hurt less in the end.”

Alistair inhales sharply. “I know.”

“Good. Now, do you wish to touch yourself?”

 _Does he wish to touch himself_. It’s such a strange question that Alistair would have laughed, in any other circumstances. But right here and then, in Zevran’s neutral tone, it doesn’t seem like such a joke. “Yes,” he breathes.

Touching himself, that he can handle. Far better than feeling someone else’s hands on his body, where they don’t quite belong yet.

He turns around and settles close to Zevran, a bit awkwardly. He hasn’t done this in so long. He slots his head into Zevran’s welcoming embrace, in the soft dip between his chest and folded arm, and curls in on himself. Zevran’s fingers come to rest on his hair, tracing slow circles as Alistair fumbles with his laces and starts stroking.

It’s not the first time he’s pleasured himself since Aedan gave his life. But this time is different, because the prickling feeling at his eyes have nothing to do with the image of Aedan’s last kiss, and everything to do with the movement of Zevran’s careful fingernails against his scalp.

He comes with a shudder and a shout, and Zevran doesn’t let him go. Alistair’s breathing gets slower and slower, until it matches the rise and fall of the chest he’s resting on. Zevran starts humming a melody he doesn’t recognise, fingers still moving in his hair, and Alistair has to close his eyes tight to keep the tears from falling.

They separate after a while, making use of the washroom, and then they end up back in bed together. Zevran doesn’t even try to put his clothes back on, slipping under the covers as though he’s at home. Alistair decides, after some hesitation, to follow his example. He strips off and climbs beside him before he can change his mind.

Zevran turns to him in the dark and, without a word, he brings his knuckles to rest against Alistair’s. They fall asleep like that, buried under expensive silk bedsheets, a King and an ex-whore, fingers barely brushing.

* * *

It’s the feeling of a shape looming over Alistair that wakes him up. He blinks, brain still thick with sleep, and tries to make sense of the room through the first faint lights of dawn. He frowns. Zevran is standing by the bed, fully dressed, watching him with his head tilted to the side. He smiles when Alistair meets his gaze.

“I must go,” he whispers. He grabs the hand that Alistair extends his way and holds it firmly in his own. “Until we meet again, _Guapo._ ” His lips graze Alistair’s knuckles, so softly that he can barely feel the touch.

And then he’s gone, just as fast as he’d appeared the night before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Amante: lover  
> Pobrecito: poor little one  
> Guapo: handsome


	5. Yours from faraway

Zevran catches up with the mercenaries before they reach the Hafter River. It’s not the biggest group of armed men out there, nor the strongest, but they’re kind and they welcome Zevran as one of their own.

Rumours are quick to form and be confirmed when it comes to how exactly Zevran has met their leader, but the jokes are always made with camaraderie rather than deprecation. None of them ever use Zevran’s previous occupation as a weapon either; they all have pasts. They don’t let them keep them back.

They travel a lot, on foot and by ship, going wherever coin is and consequences don’t follow. They find small missions, often simply guarding shops or intimidating robbers, although the occasional blood is spilled.

For the first few months, Zevran makes himself useful as best he can. He helps with the cleaning of blades and the negotiation of the occasional contract. The boss quickly realises Zevran is fluent in more languages than any of the other men – working in two capitals’ brothels has its advantages –, so he brings him along in the shady tavern corners where discussions happen. He sits at the tables and cleans his nails distractedly, looking bored, until he catches something interesting in their clients’ agitated chats.

“Ah, but their son doesn’t need protection, I’m afraid,” he says, not looking up, barely loud enough to be heard. “They rather plan on keeping the guards busy with your men in order to conduct unsavoury businesses of their own,” he looks up at their Orlesian clients, “do you not?”

The look on the occasional scheming client’s face is almost worth as much as making sure the company’s safe.

He gets attached to them, quickly. They’re barely over half a dozen, from all races and all backgrounds. Some talk about their past freely, some refuse to mention it, and others seem to have a different one every time it gets mentioned.

The boss made sure to tell Zevran, from the very first day that he joined them, that he didn’t have to repay the company in any way. He laughed and bowed, but he’s grateful.

He does spend the night with some of them anyway, on occasion. They’re pleasant enough, and it’s a good way to pass the time. Zevran loves the art of seduction, loves seeing the spark of interest appear in someone’s eyes and slowly become hard swallows and short breaths, before he’s even touched them. He joins some of his people in their rooms, sometimes, and other times he sets his interest on a pretty waitress, or that handsome shopkeeper he’s seen earlier.

It’s not the same than it was when it was his job, somehow. It’s a little strange. His partners look at him differently; there’s more wonder in the way their hands discover his skin, more laughter that cuts through the heat.

He likes the laughter.

He used to think laughter was for everything that happens before going to bed, and for everything that happens after they’ve dressed again. But the first time a beautiful innkeeper near the Frostbacks gets caught in her tunic and starts laughing, loud and unapologetic, before letting herself fall in a helpless ball onto the bed, Zevran is stunned. The laughter bubbles out of him, just as uncontrollable as hers. His stomach hurts by the time he manages to get her out, and they both lay on their back to catch their breath, the occasional giggle piercing through the cold air around them.

He likes the laughter.

He wonders what Alistair sounds like, when he’s laughing. If he sounds as shy as he looks when he’s blushing, or if he’s got the calm confidence best suited to his position.

He wonders about Alistair a lot. Wonders if he’s grieving. Wonders how it must have been, to go from being an unknown soldier to sitting on the throne. Wonders if _he_ thinks about him.

His fellow mercenaries tease him, when he thinks about these things and grows silent. They poke his shoulder and ask him who he’s pining after. Zevran is quick to get the situation back under his control with a smirk and a joke that makes them all blush, and every time he promises himself he’ll stop his thoughts from wandering again.

After some time, the men start picking up on which of Zevran’s skills they can use. They note the ease with which he gets himself in out and of situations with mindless tricks of charm. They note the awareness he has of his own body, and the deft hands he shows in all manners of card tricks.

They teach him how to lift from someone’s pockets while they’re not paying attention, and he quickly takes on the challenge of doing so while talking to them. He makes it a game, flirts, leans forwards and then back, gets his target’s full attention like the snake charmers are said to do in Seheron. He comes back to the mercenaries with pockets full of stolen jewellery and a satisfied smile.

Once he gets more used to being where the heat is at, the boss starts sending him as distraction, or as bait. He enjoys the opportunity to stretch out his legs a little and use his charms for a goal other than his owns.

Right when he starts growing a little restless, a dagger is handed to him. They watch him fumble and fail at balancing it properly, so they take the dagger away and teach him how to fight with his fists and elbows. They gather whenever they have free time, and they teach him what they know. How to dodge, how to predict his opponent’s movements and counter them.

“You’re a quick learner, Z,” the boss says, watching him whirl around and kick at his men. “You’re doing good.”

Once Zevran manages to dodge punches more often than he receives them, they give him the dagger back. And then another. They take turn teaching him how not to lose track of his target, and how to be precise with his blades.

He thinks of Taliesen, sometimes, while rubbing at tender bruises left by a too-strong hit during practice. He wonders where he is. If he’s still laying awake at night, in Antiva City, seething about his lost Crow destiny.

Zevran isn’t a Crow. Far from it. His technique his messy, it’s inelegant and full of clumsy moves that he’s certain a Crow wouldn’t make.

Still, though. He can’t bring himself to regret that choice he made long ago, crouching in a crack in the wall of the house they were allowed to stay in. When he’d lifted his hand to cover Taliesen’s mouth it had been out of reflex, but he’d pressed it tighter when he’d recognised the men. Two humans, all dressed in black, knife hilts poking from their belts and boots. There were stern paths carved on their faces, wrinkles and scars both, although their eyes looked too young to justify wrinkles yet.

He’d stayed there, his hand clasped tight over a huffing Taliesen’s mouth, until the men had gathered them all. Sixteen kids. Some barely old enough to leave the house on their own, some whose voices were starting to crack with the beginnings of adolescence.

The men had taken them, leaving a meagre bag of coin to the woman by the entrance, and they’d left. Zevran had never seen them again. Neither the men, nor their friends.

So no, Zevran can’t bring himself to regret that choice. Here he’s chosen to fight, chosen to hold these daggers and hit his opponent in the knee with the hilt, sending her tumbling into the dirt.

He wipes his forehead, a satisfied smile cracking his face as roars of delight rise from their gathered companions. He helps his opponent up, and they lock hands around each other’s elbow _. I got your back, you got mine_. Zevran likes the sound of that.

He doesn’t exactly plan to work with these people for the rest of his life, but he enjoys the friendship while he has it.

He spends over a year with them, training and traveling and laughing, before the boss calls for their attention by a slam of his tankard on their inn table.

“Children,” he says, mouth stretched in a smile that lacks a few teeth, “we’re going to Denerim.”


	6. Yours to patch up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *cw for injuries in this chapter*

It’s a nightmare that wakes Alistair up. He jolts into a sitting position as the Archdemon’s jaw closes around his abdomen, and it takes him a few seconds to push the covers away until they don’t suffocate him anymore.

He stays there, in the dark, breath and heartbeat loud in his own ears, until the shivering stops. When it finally does he gets up and washes the sweat off his face, presses his knuckles against his closed eyes in the hopes that it’ll make the nightmare disappear from his memory faster.

He paces for a bit. He doesn’t even need to light a candle to know where to walk. Five steps from the door to the bed, four steps to the desk, and seven to go back to the door.

There’s no way he’ll be able to go back to sleep straight away. He grabs some velvet robes to put over his night clothes and exits his rooms.

The hallways are barely lit by a few torches, and the thick silence is only cut by the occasional gust of wind hitting the windows. Alistair is making his way downstairs in quick steps, heading decidedly for the kitchens, when light pouring from the half-open infirmary stops him in his tracks.

He frowns. There isn’t anyone injured, as far as he knows… Why would there be activity in there? He pushes the door.

The room is lit by a single candle resting on a table. Next to it is a silhouette, someone sitting on a stool with their back turned and their head bowed. They startle to their feet and spin around when the door creaks, only to lose their balance and crash against the table.

Alistair can’t believe his eyes. In the castle’s infirmary, wearing leather armour, after over a year with no news, is standing Zevran.

“Alistair, old friend!” he exclaims, and it’s the tension in his smile that makes Alistair pay closer attention. Zevran is still leaning ungracefully against the table, and he’s got one hand clasped tight around his other arm, just above the elbow. There’s blood.

“You’re injured.”

“Yes, I rather thought I might be,” Zevran says with a tone that’s almost mocking under the shortness of breath, looking down at his arm.

Blood oozes from between his fingers, gathering at his elbow and dripping on the floor at an alarming rate. There’s a bandage hanging from his free hand, bright red, like he’s tried and failed to wrap it around the wound.

“Sit,” Alistair says, and he obeys. He detaches his fingers to let him examine the wound – not too deep, but quite long, probably a well-sharpened dagger – and applies his hand again as soon as he leans back.

Alistair works in silence, getting fresh bandages from a shelf and wrapping the wound as soon as the healing salves have stopped the bleeding. He grabs what he assumes to be Zevran’s dagger from the table to cut the end of the fabric, and sits back on his heels when he’s done.

Zevran is looking down at him, not paying attention to the cut on his arm. The candlelight dances in his eyes, making them more golden than ever. Alistair sighs. “You attract trouble, don’t you?”

Zevran chuckles and licks his lips deliberately. “Only the fun kind, my friend.”

“What happened?”

The silence stretches as Zevran takes a deep breath and considers him, before seemingly reaching a conclusion and talking. “I have been…running with the mercenaries I mentioned on my last visit.” He waves a hand in the air. “We found a job here in Denerim, but it turned out rather more complicated than we’d planned for. I lost track of the others, and I thought it best not to lead our problem straight to the inn we are staying at.” He smiles crookedly. “I doubt they dared follow me when I sneaked through one of the royal castle’s windows.”

Alistair shakes his head. He’s far from an idiot, but he’ll be damned if he ever understands how Zevran thinks. “But why come to the castle, of all places?”

He shrugs with his good shoulder. “The castle was close-by, and I knew it would have the supplies I needed.” He leans forward and winks at Alistair. “And besides, even if I had gotten caught, the housemaster would no doubt have forgiven me.”

Relying on Alistair’s soft spot for him, then. And rightfully so.

 _Maker_ , Alistair had not realised how much he’d missed him. But now he’s there, like a wounded apparition, smiling down at him from the stool he’s perched on, and Alistair would do anything to keep him around.

He looks…good. Tired, but good. His hair seems to be gathered in a messy kind of bun, although the few strands that have fallen free are longer than when Alistair last saw him. There are scars scattered on his arms, some of them cutting through the neat lines of his tattoos. His heart aches with the feeling of waste, even though he knows Zevran is not just a pretty object to be displayed.

The armour he’s wearing is made of thick leather and metal pieces. It doesn’t look very heavy. It’s actually quite similar to the one he used to see Leliana wear, except Zevran’s skirt is somehow shorter. That makes him smile.

“Nice armour,” he comments, gesturing at him.

“Is it not?” Zevran extends his good arm forwards, turning it around to admire his glove. “It cost me quite a lot of gold, but protection and fashion are worth it, no? I think I look rather _inviting_ in leather.”

He really does. Alistair nods, licking his lips.

He wonders how it would look, if someone walked in now, with the King sitting on his heels and gazing up at an intruder with an adoration he can’t contain.

The way Zevran stares back at him… Alistair doesn’t dare call it fondness. But he’s open, more so than he’s ever seen him, his smile relaxed, almost like he’s not thinking about it. It’s an expression that steals Alistair’s breath away.

“Well,” Zevran finally says, hitting his own knee and getting up, quickly followed by Alistair. “With my little problem fixed, I believe it is time for me to take my leave.”

The air feels suddenly cold, and Alistair can’t bear to see him go so soon again. It comes out impulsively, before he himself realises what he’s saying. “Stay,” he breathes.

Zevran stops dead in his tracks.

Alistair lifts a hand, but drops it before he reaches Zevran’s shoulder. “I can give you gold, You…You wouldn’t have to put yourself in danger, you could just stay here with me, you’ll never have to–”

“No,” Zevran says, without waiting for him to finish. His tone is definitive, and his jaw clenched. He’s looking at the ground. Whatever softness Alistair has seen just a few seconds ago, it’s gone. “No,” he repeats, voice hoarse. “I must go.”

“Zevran, wait–”

“I must go,” he says again, not looking at him. He waves a shaking hand dismissively, grabs his dagger from the table and shoves it back in its sheath. He walks to the open window and perches on the ledge, half-in and half-out. The loose strands of his hair sway softly in the wind.

After a few still seconds he turns back around and stares at Alistair, mouth open and brow furrowed, like he’s about to say _something_ , but then he just shakes his head and lets himself fall and disappear into the darkness.


	7. Yours to get over

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lovely wellperhaps sent me [a fanart they drew while listening to this little AU](https://www.pillowfort.io/posts/336735)! It's the first time I inspire someone to draw something with my writing :')  
> *cw for some graphic fighting (blood, blades and such) in this chapter*

Over the few years he’s been King, Alistair has learnt to enjoy the opportunity for travel, when it presents itself. No matter how much his advisors beg him to appoint ambassadors, they can’t actually forbid him from delegating his kingly duties in favour of a trip to some foreign country. The fresh air is sorely needed, and the new faces appreciated… The old ones too.

The ride to Antiva was chosen among a few merchant’s ships and swept by his disguised guards. His identity was meant to be a secret, but the information clearly slipped out, because upon boarding the ship, he finds Isabela awaiting him on the deck with a bright smile.

She’s showing an unreasonable amount of legs for the weather, but at least there’s a fur coat on her shoulders. She opens her arms wide when he sets foot on the ship, moving forward to hug him tightly, as though touching is a common thing between them. Alistair sees a guard shift from the corner of his eye, but he waves a hand in dismissal.

“I thought you were a pirate,” he says, low into her ear. “You’re taking passengers now?”

Isabela steps back, earrings glinting and clinking as she shakes her head. “Only you, sweetheart. I was curious.”

“Oh?”

“Yes!” She looks him over shamelessly. “What has my mighty Warden been up to since I last saw him, umm?”

“I, uh…” Alistair gestures vaguely at his head, mimicking the shape of a crown. “This happened.”

Her eyes and smile widen. “So I’ve heard. Must be exciting!”

Alistair shrugs and grimaces, before settling on, “I guess.”

“Listen, I need to direct my men when we leave the port, but join me in my cabin once we’ve sailed, will you? I want to know _everything_.”

Alistair nods his agreement. He crosses the deck as she sets off to shout orders at her crew, and he settles on the side of the ship, forearms resting on the balustrades. The wind picks up when they leave the port, ruffling his short hair. He closes his eyes against the bright sun and takes a deep iodine-heavy breath.

In some ways, he understands why Isabela loves this life. Sailing from country to country with no obligations but one’s own does seem quite attractive.

He remembers clearly the night he’d met her. He’d been with Aedan, his dog, and Leliana, in some Denerim tavern. They were looking for a cup of ale and some information they could use, when Isabela had made a mess at the back of the room.

The most surprising part was not the fighting, it was the propositioning that had ensued. The look that Aedan had given Alistair when he’d refused had seemed like relief back then, but he had had many years to wonder if it wasn’t encouragement. Aedan had left enough hints that he didn’t mind sharing, after all.

Leliana had taken her up on her offer, though. As much as Alistair didn’t like seeing an ally leave with a stranger, he’d had to admit she came back in one piece, and looking more than a little satisfied.

A sharp whistle brings him back from his contemplation. He turns around to find Isabela nodding in her cabin’s direction, smiling widely and ignoring his guards’ squints at her.

After the sun’s bright reflection on the sea, it takes Alistair a few moments to get used to the lack of light in the cabin. The ship rolls and he stumbles in after Isabela, who is, unsurprisingly, walking perfectly gracefully. She pours them both a drink, and they sit around a table covered in maps.

She talks about her crew with fondness, and it makes Alistair miss the time where he was running around Ferelden trying to stop the end of the world. How ironic, he thinks, to be missing the struggle of the Blight.

Although it’s not the Blight he misses, it’s the people he was fighting alongside. He thinks about Leliana briefly, and it brings his thoughts back to the night he met Isabela.

“I’m surprised you still haven’t made a move on me,” he confesses, taking a sip of his second cup of wine.

Isabela leans forwards, as though she’s sharing a secret. “It’s because we have a common friend I don’t want to get in the way of.”

Alistair’s finger twitches around his cup. “If you’re talking about Aedan, he’s dead.” He’s pleased when the sentence comes out without any stuttering. It’s been getting easier to talk about Aedan. To think about him. He’s slowly becoming more of a nice backdrop, the sound of an unapologetic laughter that Alistair can come back to without his heart twisting.

“So I’ve heard. I’m sorry.” Isabela pauses for a second. “But no, it’s not the friend I was referring to. I was talking about someone a little more…elven.”

Alistair’s heart jumps at that, and he can’t tell whether it’s a good or a bad feeling. “You know Zevran?”

Isabela is returning his frowning look with an amused one. “Oh yes. We’ve been helping each other, on occasion.”

“When did you meet?”

Isabela waves a hand. “Two years ago, maybe? Poor thing showed up with nasty injuries at the port I was in, with only the clothes on his back and a few sovereigns. We were leaving that morning, so I took him on board.” She winks. “If there’s something I’m happy to enable, it’s running away from whatever’s bent on bruising you.” She lifts her chin then, with a light in her eyes that defies Alistair to disagree with her methods. He doesn’t.

“Nasty injuries,” he echoes instead. Images of dirty cast invite themselves into his mind. “I think I saw some of those. You took him to Denerim, didn’t you?”

“I might have,” she says with a smirk.

“Why there? He’s always avoided the question.”

Isabela tuts. “I can’t reveal all my secrets, sweetheart, otherwise I’d be a piss-poor pirate.”

Alistair groans. “Figures.”

“Guess you’ll have to ask him yourself when you see him next!”

Alistair feels an uncomfortable buzz at his temples. He rubs them with the pads of his fingers, eyes falling close. “Yeah, that’s not happening. I don’t think he wants to see me again.”

“Oh, honey…” The tone of her voice sticks uncomfortably in the air.

“I don’t want your pity,” he says, low but angry. “I’m a King, by Andraste, he’s just–” He stops. He’s just what? Just a whore? Just a mercenary? Alistair shakes his head. “Forget it.”

Isabela hums in acknowledgment, and by the time Alistair looks up, he’s alone at the table. He glances around and finds her by the window, staring at the moving water.

“Don’t let it sour you, Alistair,” she says without looking at him.

“What?”

She turns around and mimics a crown on her head, just like he had earlier. He sighs.

“I know.” 

* * *

The air is unsurprisingly warm when they reach Antiva, thick with humidity and the scent of spices. Alistair exits the ship with his handful of guards, and they set onto a winding path that’ll eventually lead them to the palace.

The main streets are noisy, shouts in all languages overlapping until no sentence can be made out. Alistair has to step to the side more than once to avoid getting hit by some large basket or chest. His guards walk close, still clad in their civilian coats, eyes careful and shoulders square.

It all happens before Alistair can quite realise they’re under attack.

Something hits him in the rib, sending him stumbling beyond piles of crates into a smaller street on the side. He whirls around as two of his guards catch up with him and stand on either side, shoving their hands into their coats to grab their sword hilts and falling into a defensive posture. Alistair is watching his other guards fight against the crowd to meet their king, when one of them shudders violently and disappears into the flow.

_Shit. Shit, shit, shit._

He turns to the guard on his left to shout a warning, but something whistles by and blood sputters out from the man’s throat. Alistair launches forward to take his guard’s sword from his hand before he falls onto the ground, unmoving.

Alistair’s fingers tingle. Where. Where are they. Where is the attack coming from.

He whirls around as fabric shuffles behind him, catching a silhouette with the end of his sword. A dagger clatters onto the ground as the attacker rolls and catches herself in a crouch, a hand clasped on her arm. Her eyes are vicious when she looks up, eyebrows knit together and teeth bared. She grabs her dagger from the ground and flips it for show, and then she’s on Alistair again.

Without a shield, Alistair is not as efficient as he’d like to be. He stops a thrust of her dagger with his sword, but he doesn’t see the knife in her other hand before it grazes his arm and tears the fabric open. She slides to the side, making him whirl to follow. Alistair sees one of his guards drive his sword through another attacker’s chest, before a third one plants a knife in his eye with silent effectiveness.

Alistair hasn’t seen gruesome deaths in a while. The sight distracts him just long enough for his opponent to hit his jaw with the hilt of her knife. The edges of his vision go black. She jumps on him, twisting his arm until he drops his sword, bones groaning in pain. She spins around him and lands behind, or so he thinks, but his head hurts too much to be sure.

A sharp kick at his knee sends him tumbling to the ground on all fours. A hand grips his hair, nails drawing blood, and drags him up until the back of his head is pressed against his attacker’s stomach. It takes him a second to realise there’s a cold blade sitting on his jugular, ready to slice.

He closes his eyes.

So this is it, then. Lived through a Blight only to have his throat cut in an Antivan alleyway.

The hold in his hair loosens just as there’s a too-familiar sound of gurgling above him. The dagger at his throat trembles and clatters onto the cobblestone. Alistair scrambles to his feet and turns around with his fists raised. Whoever the new player is, they’re not going to beat him so easily.

His attacker is on the ground, a knife firmly planted in her back. Other bodies are scattered in the alley, friend and foe alike. There’s a single person still standing, dark clothes against dark skin. He’s heaving, blood-stained fingers twitching at his side. He looks up at him, and Alistair’s breath hitches.

“Zevran.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"Willia, why’s everyone always getting their ass kicked in your stories??"_  
>  I don’t know my dude, I don’t know.


	8. Yours, without reservation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a slow-ass writer and a perfectionist, so this took me far too long, but... We're here my good dudes! Only the epilogue left after this one!
> 
> *cw for emetophobia in the second paragraph, and some reference to violence to sex workers later on*

_He’s here, he’s here, there’s a bruise on his jaw and his sleeve is torn but he’s here and he’s alright._

Zevran makes a move towards Alistair, but then his abdomen spams painfully. He runs to the nearest wall and bends in half, vomiting his last meal. The blood on his fingers stains the wall as they scrape the brick. He lets his head hang down, praying that his trembling arms won’t crumble under his weight. His vision goes black at the edges.

He feels a hesitant hand on his spine and jumps back, out of Alistair’s reach. He hates how his hands are still shaking, hate how faint he feels. But Alistair is standing there with a hand extended in his direction, so he moves forward and crashes against him.

“You’re safe,” he croaks into his shoulder. “I thought you would– I thought I was too late.”

“Zevran.” Alistair all but whispers the name, and he has to close his eyes to take the hit. “Zevran, what– what’s happening?”

Alistair lets him step back, but grabs his shoulder when Zevran loses his balance, grounding him. He watches him sputter out a broken explanation, listens to Zevran telling him about hearing of a contract on a king, and following the trail, and how _terrified_ he was when he’d understood Alistair was the target. He tells him about sneaking on a ship with the assassins, and then losing them to the winding streets of Antiva City, and _Maker Alistair I thought you were going to die_.

“Were they Crows?” he asks when Zevran takes a breath.

“No.” Zevran shakes his head. “Even the Crows wouldn’t dare attack a king. They were part of something else... And they probably weren’t alone. We must hide you.”

“Don’t you have people with you? Mercenaries?”

“No, it’s just me now. But I know a lot of people around Antiva City, I’ll call in some favours, they’ll make sure these assassins cannot bother you again. Then you may…” He pauses, blinks at the ground. “You may go on with your life.”

Alistair’s hand drops from his shoulder. Zevran closes his eyes. A few seconds pass, where the only sound over his own heartbeat in his ears is the muffled chatter of the busy street further down the alley.

“The inn,” Alistair says finally, voice thick.

Zevran risks a glance up, but looks away as soon as his gaze crosses Alistair’s. “Where we met?”

“Yes. They’re discreet. We can hide there.”

“Very well. Let’s go.”

* * *

Zevran leaves a stack of coin to the innkeeper and a message to a boy he recognises, watching as he scuttles out. He drinks the cup of water he’s handed, washing off the acrid taste in his throat, before turning and gesturing Alistair down the hallway.

He stops upon reaching the door number he’s been given.

Of course it’d be _that_ bedroom.

He shakes his head and pushes the door. The room looks the same that it used to years ago, although the desk has been pushed against one of the walls. Dust flies into the air when they walk in, dancing in the evening sunlight that filters through the dirty window. Zevran goes to it, glances out to make sure it doesn’t represent too weak a spot.

“The message is out there,” he says without turning. “By tomorrow morning the threat will be cleared, and you’ll be able to go to the Palace, yes? I think it better if I stay here with you for tonight, but–”

“Was it the first time you killed someone?” Alistair’s voice cuts through his, snapping like a whip.

Zevran turns back toward the room and looks at him for the first time since they left the alleyway. Alistair’s hair is sticking up messily, his gaze full of questions under knit eyebrows. Zevran swallows.

“Yes,” he finally answers in a low voice.

Alistair doesn’t say anything to that. He just stares at him with something unreadable on his face that twists Zevran’s gut.

“Listen…” Zevran’s voice dies down as he crosses the room to go check the door’s lock. He senses Alistair spin to follow his moves, feels his gaze on his shoulders like a weight. He exhales carefully before facing the room again.

“If you will hear me out, I– I owe you an explanation, I believe.”

Zevran feels the air between them grow colder still, and he wraps his arms around him. Alistair licks his lips and nods unsteadily. Neither makes a move towards the other.

“I’ve seen this happen countless times, you see.” Zevran clears his throat, gaze wandering towards the window. Easier to stir up old memories if he doesn’t have to see Alistair’s reaction to them. “It’s always the most rich and powerful of clients. It starts with talks of love, of favourite ones. The whore receives gifts, and promises of safety, and everything they could wish for. They always end up believing the fairytale.” He takes a shuddering breath. “They’re never seen again, once they leave. Whether they get disposed of when their master is bored, or if they’re still trapped, I do not know.”

He looks back at Alistair. There’s a tension in his shoulders and on his face, a strain that Zevran wishes he didn’t have to cause, but he knows it wouldn’t be fair to leave him guessing the reason of his hasty departure on their last encounter.

“Like that girl you helped, back in Denerim,” Alistair finally offers.

“Yes. Like that girl. Your friend, Isabela, too. She wasn’t– She was never a whore, but she _was_ owned. If there hadn’t been a contract on her husband when there was, he might have gotten bored of her.” He uncrosses his arms and crosses them again, shoulders pushed forward. “You don’t want to bore people who can imprison another being.” His throat closes in on itself, and he has to force the next words out. “So you see, I’m sure, the warning signs that I noted when we last met.”

For a moment there’s just silence, and Zevran wonders whether he should reiterate his point. But then Alistair talks, voice trembling and horrified.

“I don’t– I don’t want that for you. Maker, I never want that for you. I thought it was about pride, I didn’t know this– this was a thing that happened.”

Zevran feels a bitter kind of laughter bubble up in his throat, and he doesn’t hold it back. “I know.” He smiles sadly. “You are a good man, Alistair. You have an honest heart.” Something in his spine unlocks, almost painfully.

“You don’t– you don’t belong to anyone.”

“No, I do not.”

“I’d never ask you to do anything _you_ don’t want.”

Zevran nods. “Indeed.”

Alistair makes a noise then, a pained sound that slithers through his teeth. His smile is just as strained, and it disappears in an instant, as he shuffles from one foot to the other.

“Do you– do you want this?” he gestures a bit awkwardly between them, before letting his hand drop.

“I cannot be trapped,” Zevran says through the lump in his throat.

“I know. I’m not asking you to live at the castle or anything, I just– I just want you to know you’re always welcome there. In whatever way you may like. I’ll always want to see you.”

Zevran’s eyelids prickle with unwelcome tears. “Do not make these promises lightly, _Tesoro_.”

“I’m not.”

Zevran nods to himself.

 _Well then_. That wasn’t exactly how he’d pictured the day would go, but since when has anything in his life followed an actual plan?

He takes a few steps forward and lifts his hands to work one of his earrings off. He looks at it for a second, swipes a thumb over the gold as though cleaning dust.

He’s worn this earring for so long it’s almost become a part of him. A gift to himself from the first time he’d gathered enough gold working in the brothel to buy himself something nice. The shine has become a little dull now, but it still catches the light of the sunset from the window.

He puts the earring flat in his palm, and presents it to Alistair. “A token of my affection,” he says, voice strained. “Take it.”

“What does it mean?” Alistair murmurs, unmoving.

Zevran licks his lips. His lungs feel too small. “It means I am yours, without reservation.” He closes his eyes tight, unsure of what emotion exactly he’s fighting. He feels a hand on either side of his face, and then warm lips at his forehead.

“Thank you.” Alistair’s voice is more breath than sound. “Thank you.” He kisses his forehead again.

A relieved laughter bubbles out of Zevran, and he rubs at the corners of his eyes with his free hand. “Take it,” he repeats.

“Right.” Alistair picks up the earring between his thumb and forefinger, but then he’s on Zevran again, kissing his face with his free hand cradling his jaw.

Zevran tips his head back, and the movement is enough to give Alistair pause. He doesn’t hesitate long, though. He leans in, and Zevran feels his breath against his lips a mere second before they touch.

Zevran can’t remember when he last kissed someone. Maybe it was on the road, with the mercenaries, or maybe it was–

He loses his train of thought as Alistair’s tongue swipes at his lips.

Regardless of when his last kiss was, he can’t remember ever being kissed _like that_. There’s a reverence in Alistair’s touch, a contained electricity in the moan he makes into his mouth– unless it’s his own voice. He isn’t sure.

He grips the front of Alistair’s shirt and pulls, his other hand already positioned to slip under the fabric, before he remembers.

_Doesn’t want to be touched._

He lets go.

Alistair detaches himself in a flash, grabbing Zevran’s wrist before he can drop his hand. His lips are swollen, glistening, and Zevran feels his heart thump louder at the sight.

“No.” Alistair blinks quickly, licks his lips. “You can– I want you to. Touch me. Please.”

Zevran grins. _The day really is full of surprises._ “Asked so nicely…” he kisses him, quick and deep. “…how could I refuse?” he murmurs against his lips.

Alistair gives an amused sound that becomes muffled approval when Zevran slips both hands under his shirt and pulls him close, hands roaming on the expanse of his back. He twists around Zevran, following his movements and accommodating for their height difference, and _Maker_ Zevran has missed that dance of bodies fitting against each other. And the dance with _this_ body is especially sweet.

Moving with Alistair is strange. He is too tall, too out of practice, too eager, and yet it _works_. He shoves Zevran’s earring in a trousers pocket without detaching himself from Zevran, and then both his hands are on his body, wide and warm, everywhere at once. They reach his ass and pull him closer, and Zevran gives a hiccup as his cock rubs against Alistair’s thigh.

He breaks the kiss just long enough to catch his breath. “I must know,” he says, urgently. “How much do you wish to be touched?”

“I’m all yours.”

The certainty in Alistair’s eyes hits Zevran almost as hard as his words, and he’s still chasing his breath when Alistair pulls him toward the bed. He sits on the edge, almost daintily, and Zevran tuts before shoving him fully onto it. Alistair lands with a noise of protest and a smile that Zevran follows, straddling his hips, and kisses.

“I have oil,” Alistair says in a low voice when Zevran pulls back. A blush spreads on his cheeks. “If–If we need it.”

Zevran grins. He steps off the bed and follows his instructions to his bag, where he finds a small vial that he tosses on the cover next to Alistair.

He detaches the buckles of his armour on his way back to the bed, letting it fall on his path. Alistair is on his knees by the time he climbs back onto the bed, gripping his hands, his arms, his shoulders, pulling him closer. Zevran gives up on removing his shirt and just lets Alistair hold him close and kiss him, messy, hungry, desperate. He distantly hears himself whine weakly, and feels the shape of a smile against his lips.

“Shirts,” Alistair says, so close Zevran feels it more than he hears it.

“Yes.”

They separate just long enough for both of them to remove their shirts, and then Zevran is pushing Alistair back onto the bed, covering his throat in messy patterns with his lips and tongue. Alistair squirms under him, breathing strained as he arches up to meet his body. Zevran moves lower, wandering across his chest everywhere where muscle twitches, and everywhere where it doesn’t. Alistair’s skin is burning under his touches, flushed and responsive, goosebumps following his fingers like ripples in a pond.

Alistair’s fists close around the bedsheets when Zevran reaches his waistband. They exchange a glance. Alistair nods.

The lacing is quickly undone, and Zevran moves back to pull off trousers and underwear in one go, shoving them away without paying attention to where they land.

He sits back on his heels.

Alistair is staring at him, lips parted, chest rising and falling rapidly, cock flushed and heavy against his stomach. Even though he doesn’t have the bunched-up muscles of someone who fights daily, the scars scattered everywhere prove that he used to. The biggest one runs from his shoulder to his abdomen, pale against the tan skin, finishing in a painful-looking coil. Zevran makes a mental note to kiss that scar. Someday.

Alistair’s fists are still twisted in the sheets, and Zevran gives one of them a loving squeeze before bending in half and, eyes fixed on Alistair, closing a hand around his cock and swallowing it. It pushes past his throat and he feels the muscle there spasm, right before he properly gags. He pulls off in a hurry.

He wipes the corners of his eyes and looks up at Alistair with an ‘out of practice’ apology on his lips, but Alistair is staring at him with such wonder that Zevran forgets what he meant to say.

“You don’t have to,” Alistair murmurs.

Zevran winks at him and takes him into his mouth again. He goes slower this time, letting it simply touch the back of his throat a few times before he pushes further.

It was one of his specialties at the brothel– and something he quite enjoyed, too– and he’ll be damned if he lets the lack of practice keep him from making use of his skills on Alistair.

He’s so focused on his task that he barely realises Alistair’s panting forms a word. He’s saying Zevran’s name over and over again, like a mantra, higher and _higher_ , more desperate with each shuddering exhale. His leg twitches next to Zevran, and his breathing halts when their gazes meet. Alistair’s next exhale is long and controlled, and Zevran makes it a point to pull out at the same rhythm, pressing his tongue firmly against the underside of his cock.

“I’m not going to last long,” Alistair says, voice hoarse. “It’s been a few years,” he adds with a nervous kind of chuckle that turns into a groan when Zevran swirls his tongue around the tip of his cock. He throws his head back, and Zevran sees his throat work around his panting.

Alistair’s hands fly to Zevran’s head when he sinks onto him again, guiding his bobbing movement without really applying any pressure. His noises grow urgent, fingers tensing against Zevran’s scalp, and with a wordless cry he’s coming down his throat.

Zevran finishes cleaning him and pops off with a satisfied smile, crawling up Alistair’s body as he catches his breath.

“Maker,” Alistair pants, kissing the top of his head, “you’re good at this.”

Zevran hums in contentment at the compliment. Alistair’s skin is warm, a little shiny, and he presses against him.

“Give me a few minutes and I’ll be good to go,” Alistair croaks.

Zevran props his chin onto his hand to look at him. “Really?”

Alistair waves a hand and grimaces, although the expression is quickly replaced with a self-satisfied smirk. “Grey Warden. You know what they say about us.”

Zevran grins. “Oh yes, I know the rumours. I can’t however say I’ve had the pleasure of checking them for myself.”

Alistair snorts and closes his eyes, an arm coming up to wrap loosely around Zevran.

“In the meantime…” Zevran trails a finger down his neck. “I would greatly enjoy fucking you, Alistair.”

The effect is immediate. Alistair’s free hand flies to his face to cover it, although it’s not enough to hide the blushing of his ears. A gurgling sound that might’ve been words rises from behind his palm, and a faint shudder goes through his body. Zevran lets out a breathy laugh.

“What do you think?” he asks in his most innocent voice.

“ _Please_ ,” comes the answer, muffled and high-pitched.

Zevran follows the side of his forearm with a hand, until he can stroke Alistair’s wrist. Alistair gets the message and slowly removes his hand, revealing darkened skin and a trembling smile. Zevran chuckles.

“I take it you enjoy being fucked?”

“Maker, yeah!” Alistair closes his eyes and shakes his head, before looking at him again. “It’s been a while, obviously, but… I’d like it. I’ve been thinking– I think–” His voice dies down.

Zevran smirks. “Ah, you’ve been thinking about it, have you?” He drops his voice to a rumble. “How I’d feel inside of you.”

Alistair nods, Adam’s apple bobbing and pupils blown wide. His eyes don’t leave Zevran’s.

“Since when?”

Alistair chuckles nervously. “Uh. It started at some point between the first and second time I was in Antiva.”

 _Delightful_.

“I do love the idea of occupying your thoughts,” he says. He doesn’t tell him about the many times he himself has been in Zevran’s thoughts for the past few years. There’s been enough truths for one day.

Instead he moves away to grab the vial of oil from where it was laying, enjoying Alistair’s hungry gaze on his every gesture. He coats his fingers before putting the cork back in and tossing it within reach, and settles between Alistair’s legs. He can’t resist kissing the side of his knee – Alistair gasps – before bringing his slicked fingers against him.

The first finger slides in easily, and Alistair groans low in his throat when Zevran starts moving it. He reaches out. Zevran grabs his hand with his free one, fingers tangling, and holds on tight when Alistair strains in his grip.

Alistair gives a sob followed by a hissed “yes” when Zevran slides a second finger next to the first one. By the time Zevran has worked three fingers inside of Alistair, his cock shows a renewed interest. It twitches against Alistair’s stomach, and Zevran grins.

“Ah, so the Warden’s stamina was no lie!”

Alistair scoffs exaggeratedly, his free hand flying to his chest. “You doubt my honesty?”

Zevran clicks his tongue, frowning as though thinking deeply. He withdraws his fingers. “You did give me a fake name when we met.”

That gives Alistair pause. He blinks at him, and then his body starts shaking with laughter.

 _Unapologetic_ , Zevran notes. Alistair laughs _unapologetically_. He snorts like a child, nose scrunched up and eyes squeezed shut, the muscles on his stomach drawn tight.

Soon enough Zevran can’t keep his own laughter in either, and it tugs him down, makes him bends over Alistair until the top of his head is resting on his chest. He feels a hand bury itself in his hair when Alistair gets his breathing under control, and he looks up. Alistair is smiling down at him, lips crooked and eyes crinkled at the corners, and Zevran feels his heart swell in his ribcage.

“Are you going to stare at me all day,” he murmurs, “or shall we get back to the main event?”

Alistair smiles wider, a blush spreading on his cheeks. “I’m sure we can manage both.”

Something strains in Zevran’s chest at the words, bittersweet and hot, and it tugs the corners of his mouth upward.

“Sweet talker,” he comments, stretching to grab the bottle of oil and slick his cock, before lining up with Alistair.

He looks up. Alistair is staring at him steadily, something like humour in the crinkle of his eyes, an expression that morphs into something with an edge when Zevran’s cock slots against him and starts pushing in.

Zevran takes his time, rocking forward a bit more with each roll of his hips, more and more and more, and soon Alistair’s voice has joined the choir of his thoughts. _More_ and _more_ and _more_...

Alistair is careless in his noises, just like in his laughter, as though he doesn’t get to do either often enough to have learnt to control them. He moves under Zevran with an untroubled kind of eagerness, mouth half open and gaze roaming over Zevran, over his face, and his body, and along his arm to the hand gripping his hipbones.

He holds onto Zevran’s own hips, fingers so delicately placed it makes Zevran feel like some fragile artefact.

“I am not made of glass,” he says, and snaps his hips hard to mark his point.

Alistair rocks with him, following the pace he’s setting, and he finally grips onto Zevran for good, fingers digging into the soft flesh of his ass to pull him closer.

That’ll surely leave bruises.

Zevran can’t keep from smiling at the thought. He changes his angle when he sees a question on Alistair’s face, smile turning a little more wicked when Alistair’s panting stutters.

“T-There,” he chokes, blinking hard before bringing a hand to his own cock.

There’s a mark on Alistair’s throat, more of a nick than a cut, where the assassin’s knife almost sliced. Zevran touches it with the tip of his fingers, and something softens in Alistair’s eyes. Zevran swallows the fear and smiles around it.

He forces himself to keep his eyes open, even as the movements of his hips become erratic, forces himself to look at Alistair under him, open-mouthed and panting and _alive_.

Alistair barely has time to shout a warning between two breathy moans, and then his head is snapping against the bed and he’s coming, hard.

Zevran lets go. He follows him over the edge, white-hot pleasure exploding in his every nerve, turning his breaths into a final groan, and his limbs into liquid. He falls against Alistair’s body unceremoniously, and it takes him a few seconds to register that there are two warm arms wrapped tightly around him.

“Maker.” Alistair’s voice is broken, scraped raw by his shouting. Zevran hums in agreement.

Someone will have to get up and fetch something to clean up the mess on their skin, but for now Zevran is too comfortable. He pulls out of Alistair and crawls up his body, just high enough to fit his face in the crook of his neck.

Alistair smells of sex and expensive perfume. There’s something magnetic about it, something that pulls Zevran in, makes him shift his afterglow-heavy limbs until he’s touching him from head to toes.

The night settles while they lay there, the last warm lights of the day deserting the room, until Zevran can barely guess the shape of Alistair’s body. He traces it blindly, follows the faint scars and fainter muscles on his chest with his fingers.

“Zevran?” Alistair’s voice raises from the darkness, still broken despite the almost-whisper in which he speaks.

“Um?”

There’s a pause. Zevran counts the rises and falls of Alistair’s chest. There’s two of each, before he speaks again.

“Why did you come to Denerim? When you were injured. You never told me.”

 _Ah_.

Zevran’s fingers hitch on their pattern, a twitch so minute he wonders whether Alistair has felt it.

“There was nowhere else to go,” he murmurs.

“What do you mean?”

Zevran sighs. He splays his hand as wide as he can over Alistair’s chest.

“I was wounded. And afraid.”

He closes his eyes. It’s been years, but it’s all still within reach. The blood dripping from his nose, soaking his shirt at an alarming speed. The painful angle his knee bent at at every step, the pinch in his shoulder that was making him see stars. Dragging himself through the empty streets is a fog now, in his memory, but he does remember the certainty with which he’d repeated to himself, _I’m going to die, I’m going to die, I’m going to die._

“I thought Tal– the man who did this to me would catch up with me and finish what he’d started. You–” he clears his throat “–You were the only person, the only place I could think about.”

Isabela had been good to him. She’d let him on board without asking any question. They’d set sail while he was passed out, and later she’d nodded when he’d muttered the name of the only city he could remember. She’d looked after his injuries when she had the time, and sent her men to relieve her when she didn’t. There was always someone sitting by his side when he woke up, holding a cup of water to his lips.

There’s a smile in Alistair’s voice when he speaks. “So you did come for me.”

“So I did.”

It’s Alistair who ends up getting up. Zevran groans when he moves from under him, but he lets him clean his stomach, and begrudgingly shifts to let Alistair slide the cover from under his body. He wraps it around both of them, and Zevran has to admit to himself it was a good idea when his eyes start closing on their own.

Alistair wraps around him like vine, arms and legs surrounding him solidly, and Zevran is distantly surprised when he doesn’t have to fight an urge to break free. Alistair’s stubble messes up his hair a little and it takes him a moment to realise Alistair is saying his name, so softly it’s almost lost through the fog in Zevran’s brain.

“What is it?” he asks, voice thick.

“Will you come back to Denerim with me?” Alistair breathes. “Take the same ship as me.”

Zevran frowns. Thinking is hard. “I think I might,” he mumbles. “I still have some business to settle while I’m here, but it should be quickly dealt with.”

“What kind of business?”

Sleepiness is getting the best of Zevran. He hums, before realising he hasn’t actually answered the question. He yawns.

“I have an old friend to visit.”

* * *

Taliesen is not hard to track down. Zevran finds him in a fighting ring under the city, wiping blood off his chin as he steps out of the arena. Inside of it is a body, knocked out or dead, getting unceremoniously dragged out the other way.

The screams of the audience and the smell of sweat and blood press hard on Zevran’s chest, and he digs his nails into his palms to keep himself from grabbing a knife when his eyes meet Taliesen’s. He refuses to let him see just how scared he is of him. He plants his feet firmly as Taliesen walks towards him, all threatening swagger and suspicious gaze.

“Nice toothpick,” Taliesen calls out, indicating the dagger hilt over Zevran’s shoulder with a bandaged hand. “You a fighter now?”

Zevran swallows. He lifts his chin in defiance before saying, barely loud enough to be heard over the renewed shrieks of the crowd, “Something like that.”

“Uh.” Taliesen stops, not quite within arms’ reach, and looks at him head to toes. “You here for an apology?”

“A warning.” Zevran fights the urge to grab a knife from his belt, or run away, or do anything that is not just _standing there_. He steels his voice. “I may not be living in Antiva City anymore, but I know a lot of people. I can see you still enjoy a good brawl, but I’d hate to learn that you’ve been going after helpless targets again.”

Taliesen snorts, baring his teeth in a smile that becomes a scowl. “You threatening me?” He rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck pointedly. Zevran looks him over, quickly, finding four weaknesses in his defences before he’s even reached his waist.

“Yes.”

“I think it’s cute you think you can beat me in a fight.”

The fear in Zevran’s blood turns into detached irritation. “I think it’s cute you think you can surprise me.”

He shakes his head, turning to leave and talking a few steps, before spinning back around to look at Taliesen.

“I’ve got an eye on you, Tal. Be on your best behaviour, yes?”

He doesn’t wait for Taliesen’s answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My writing process for this chapter included asking myself, "would someone really risk deepthroating a guy like an hour after having vomited?"  
> And the conclusion I came to was, "Zevran would."


	9. Yours

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this epilogue took so long! Once the pressure of the big chapter (the previous one) had passed, I..forgot to care about this story. And then university happened and I rediscovered Deadlines. But it's here now!

Orlesians are… Well. They’re Orlesians.

There’s only a dozen of them in the Denerim castle’s ballroom, but their constant murmuring and side looks are enough to make Alistair feel like he’s being watched by hundreds. They glide around the room in small clusters, each of them triggering an unsettling shiver at the back of his neck. His formal clothes feel more uncomfortable by the minute, the leather too thick, his cloak too heavy, the crown not sitting right on his head. He’d have left the place long ago, if it weren’t for his own advisors’ warning gazes on him every time he moves toward the back door.

Instead he’s settled in one of the armchairs lined against the wall, silently praying for a reason to escape, one hand on a cup of wine and the other pressing fingernails against his own palm to keep himself from fidgeting too obviously.

The first clue that something is happening is the sudden stop in Orlesian whispering, quickly followed by renewed, louder gossiping. Alistair scans the room for the origin of the commotion. Following gazes, he quickly finds the disturbing silhouette standing by one of the windows.

Which is open.

_Did he– Did he come in through the window?_

His hair is longer now, just past his shoulders, cascading prettily on his tunic in a way Alistair knows is not on accident. He did always love putting on a show. He’s wearing his travelling clothes, clean but far from adequate for a ball, and knee-high leather boots that clash with every Orlesian noble’s bejewelled shoes.

Alistair only has a few seconds to look at him, breathless, before Zevran’s amber eyes find him. He smiles widely at him. Alistair knows in the shape of it that he was aiming for a smirk, but couldn’t hold back a more open expression. He feels it in the ache in his own cheek, and the sensation in his chest, like his heart is plummeting and soaring at the same time.

He gets up before he’s realised it, discarding his goblet on a nearby table without looking, and they meet somewhere in the middle of the room under the eyes of a shamelessly attentive Orlesian audience.

“Zevran,” he breathes.

“Hello, _amor_.” This time it’s a smirk on Zevran’s lips, full of secrets and promises, and Alistair aches to kiss it.

_Not here._

Can this justify leaving a ball?

Zevran licks his lips, arching an eyebrow with defiance. His body is so close that Alistair can almost feel the warmth of it. So _close_ but not touching.

Alistair decides it’s a good enough reason.

He indicates the back door with a nod and spins around, cloak flying in his wake. Whispering Orlesians be damned. He feels Zevran on his feet without needing to check, with a trustful sort of instinct. The advisors who try to stop their progress get dismissed with a wave, and Alistair could swear he hears Zevran chuckling at the careless urgency of his order.

Alistair grabs his hand as soon as they’re out of the ballroom. It’s as small compared to his as it always is, but the callouses are rougher than the last time he held it, and it makes him smile. He begins walking hastily away from too-nosy guests, dragging a more than willing Zevran with him.

“People will talk,” Zevran says behind him after a while, his voice achingly familiar. _Maker, but he’s missed him._

Alistair laughs. “I’m fairly certain the rumours about the King’s lover are already running wild around the kingdom.”

“Do you not fear I be used against you?” Zevran’s words are serious, but his tone is light, and it makes Alistair slow down to look at him.

He’s suddenly very aware that the hallway is empty. He smiles and slowly pushes Zevran toward one of the stone walls. He likes the way he towers over Zevran, likes how his lips curve ever-so-slightly just before their mouths meet. Alistair’s heart is beating just as fast as the first time they kissed.

He’s almost forgotten the topic of their conversation by the time he pulls back, lips still tingling for Zevran’s soft bites. He lets his fingers glide up his wrist under they meet the flat of one of Zevran’s many concealed blades.

_Oh, right. Being used against him._

“I think you’re more than capable of defending yourself,” Alistair says. Zevran chuckles and grab his hand to kiss his knuckles.

Alistair realises he’s lead them to his bedrooms when Zevran slithers away and pushes the door next to him without being prompted. He’s never been great at waiting for invitations to this room.

“Ah,” Zevran counters, spinning in place with a flourish, “but who will protect _you_?”

Alistair closes the door behind himself, huffing in mock offend. “Hey now, I haven’t completely lost it, since the Blight!”

“Of course.” Zevran bows his head in apology, although his tone is all but apologetic. “How dare I doubt you.”

“I forgive y–”

Alistair only has time to lean back, holding his crown in place with one hand, as Zevran shifts and throws his foot in a wide swipe far too close to where Alistair’s face was a second ago.

“Hey!” he protests. “Not fair, I’m in formal clothes!”

Zevran snickers before settling for a fight, his whole body wound up like a cat ready to pounce.

Alistair doesn’t even try to pretend he doesn’t want this. He grabs and blindly throws his crown onto the bed, and matches Zevran’s posture. The hard leather and heavy cloak give him a disadvantage, but then again, he used to fight in armour that was far bulkier than any formal clothing.

He dodges Zevran’s next hit, and thrusts his fist forward, stopping it just short of actually digging into his gut. Zevran is laughing as he stalks around him, and if his roaming gaze is probably just trying to assess his weaknesses, it does nothing to calm the desire that’s been singing in Alistair’s veins since Zevran appeared in the ballroom.

He licks his lips. Zevran catches it and cocks a single eyebrow.

_Oh, the bastard knows what he’s doing._

Zevran kicks again, high in the air, and even though it might not be the best of moves in a real fight, it sends Alistair back a few steps to dodge it.

Zevran tuts. “You should not be surprised by my flexibility anymore, my friend.”

 _Maker. He really shouldn’t._ He feels heat rise on his cheeks.

This time when Zevran prepares his hit Alistair sees it happen, and he uses his temporary lack of balance to hurl both of them on the floor, softening the impact on the rug as best he can. He can’t keep himself from shouting in triumph at Zevran’s dumbfounded expression, as he applies a knee firmly over his abdomen, and puts his weight on the hand on Zevran’s shoulder.

He bends down, a victorious joke on his lips, but then Zevran kicks up and pushes him off balance. Alistair is on his back before he can realise what’s happening. Zevran throws a leg over his body almost lazily, sitting right on his groin with his lips curled up. Alistair is getting ready to retaliate, when Zevran grinds down deliberately against him.

Alistair surrenders.

He closes his eyes to enjoy the sensation, grips his hips and rolls up with him, chases the closeness and the pressure.

Zevran hums. He leans downs, hands braced on the rug on each side of Alistair’s head, until his lips are grazing Alistair’s ear when he speaks. “I bested you again, my friend. Perhaps I should stick around and teach you a few tricks, hmm?”

Alistair’s eyes snap open just as he stills his hips. “You’re staying?” he asks, incredulous. Zevran closes his teeth around his earlobe before kissing it and pulling back. His smile is carefree, the corners of his eyes crinkled.

“Just for a few days. I have received a tip for a job in Highever, but–” he swipes a thumb over Alistair’s bottom lip, follows the curve of his smile. “–it can surely wait.”

Alistair wishes he had something clever to say, but all he can do is wrap both his arms around Zevran’s body and hold him close. His hair smells of that oil he uses for special occasions, to make it softer. Alistair closes his eyes and buries his face into it. “I’m glad you’re staying,” he mumbles.

“So am I.” Zevran’s voice is low, the warm air of it tickling Alistair’s neck.

“I have so much to tell you. When do you have to leave?”

“In eight days, at the latest.” Zevran pulls back just far enough to look at him. He smiles and kisses him, quick and soft. “Until then, I’m yours.”

Alistair has a schedule to clear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The illustration is a commission I got from [pagaeae](http://pegaeae.tumblr.com/).  
> Thank you so much to everyone who's read this fic, left kudos and comments... This has been my longest project in English, and I couldn't have done it without your support!  
> Make my day by spreading this fic on [tumblr](https://stormthedarkcity.tumblr.com/post/180947211848/) and [pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.io/posts/247246) <3 <3


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